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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27402199">Face The Music</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amymimi/pseuds/Amymimi'>Amymimi</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>MASH (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Existential Crisis, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Friendship/Love, Grief/Mourning, Historical Accuracy, Medical Jargon, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Sexism, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-War, Slow Burn, Stuttering, Surgery, psychological repression</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-05-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-08 23:28:11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>56,234</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27402199</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amymimi/pseuds/Amymimi</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Charles Winchester is back in the States and is beginning his new career as Chief of Thoracic Surgery at Boston Mercy. His life has picked up right where it left off, but it's not the same life he left behind. Can a visit from an old friend help him see the proverbial light?</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Margaret "Hot Lips" Houlihan &amp; Charles Emerson Winchester III, Margaret "Hot Lips" Houlihan/Charles Emerson Winchester III</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>31</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Painful Memories</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I do not own any of the characters from M*A*S*H.  I do, however, really want to know what happened to Charles after the war, and so here is my rendition of it!</p><p>Please listen to the song "Adagio in G Minor for Strings and Organ" by Remo Giazotto; it played a big role in the writing of these chapters.  I listen to it while I write them and while I read them and sets the tone very well, in spite of the title of the story!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Whether it was from the travel, the new richness and complexity of edible food, or some lingering intestinal parasite from Korea, he could not be sure of the exact cause of his current digestive malady.  All he knew was that so far, the majority of his time back at his family estate in Boston was spent clenching his teeth as he quickly shuffled between his bedroom and bathroom, with any respite between the short trips spent flipping anxiously through his medical texts awaiting the next demanding abdominal cramp.</p><p>Honoria wasn’t so worried about her brother’s constant bowel movements—he was a doctor; he knew what to do about those—but rather, the lack of music that accompanied his self-imposed exile.  Was this not her big brother Charles Emerson Winchester III who had returned from Korea little more than a week ago, a man who lived and breathed for Mozart and Tchaikovsky and Beethoven?  Were it not for his medical career, this was a man who would have been <i>thrilled</i> to be a conductor, even pro bono, standing with a baton in hand in front of the Boston Symphony Orchestra, his wide smile hidden from the audience.  What had happened to her beloved brother?  </p><p>After several days of enduring the lack of music, the lack of <i>any</i> discernible sound from his room, Honoria Winchester had enough.</p><p>“Ch-Charles,” she stuttered through the closed door of his bedroom.  “D-do you want me to fetch your ph-phonograph for you?  You m-might recall that f-father just p-purchased you a v-very g—”</p><p>“So kind of you to ask,” he interrupted, his eyes shut as he sat up in bed, “but no, thank you.”</p><p>Silence followed his statement.  She blinked indignantly behind the door, surprised at his curtness.  This was not the brother she knew.</p><p>“Wh-what happened to you?” she said, her voice barely louder than a whisper, shoulder leaning heavily on the door.  “You always loved m-music.”</p><p>“Not anymore,” he spat, enunciating each syllable, his stomach lurching.  He shut his eyes and swallowed, despising everything.  The irony of the current situation was not lost on him—he was in the throes of the very same digestive ailment that had first brought him to encounter the five Chinese musicians.  And yet, here he was, alive and recuperating in his mansion, wholly intact save for his intestinal mucosa, and what was left of the musicians’ mortal forms had been unceremoniously strewn across the Korean brush.  Those men would have no dignified burial; perhaps their families would never learn what had happened to them.  All that was recognizably left of them in the world was the haunting last notes from their musical instruments as they departed the 4077th.</p><p>Honoria’s reply cut through his melancholic thoughts.</p><p>“Oh, Charles, s-surely you j-jest—”</p><p>“I do not,” he interrupted, stubbornly crossing his arms as he glared at the door.  He wanted to be left alone, with his private bathroom and his queen-sized bed and his library of books.  His stomach and bowels had afforded him that time for more than a week now.  He could not speak of this aloud, for it would surely break him.  </p><p>“Did s-something… happen?” she then asked.  “It was not two m-months ago that you wrote to me about M-Mozart—d-do you recall?”</p><p>It was true that he had done so, and yet, less than two months later, just the <i>thought</i> of music—of <i>Mozart</i>, in particular—gave him such heartache, such tangible pain, that he could scarcely remember to breathe.</p><p>The faces of those Chinese POWs filled his senses.  He opened his eyes again, taking in the sight of his expansive bedroom to try to erase what had formed in his mind’s eye.  The fatally injured POW that had been delivered back to the M.A.S.H., the flautist, seemed to materialize in front of him in this very room, on his very bed, the brown shirt soaked with blood, the chest cavity only half-present, the formerly smiling face pale and waxy, the deft musician hands gray and still.  </p><p>Charles blinked the image away, his mind now filled with the haunting strains of Mozart’s Clarinet Quintet in A major echoing off of the Korean landscape as the five musicians disappeared from view one final time.  He clutched his stomach again, yearning for the acceptable agony of his digestive malady as a welcome interruption to this unbearable mental anguish.</p><p>“Please, Honoria,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion, “I am not ready to speak of it.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Commencement</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thank you so much for your feedback and kudos!  Please feel free to let me know what you think--it really makes my day to get reviews!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It had been a welcome respite from his thoughts that he had begun in earnest his new career as Head of Thoracic Surgery at Boston Mercy Hospital.  His bowels had finally begun to cooperate a mere two days before he was to begin, and on this first day of his new job, he felt almost back to normal physically.  The summer had been unbearably hot—in fact, it was a stifling 99°F today—and he could feel the humid stickiness already emanating from his armpits as he strode into the front door of the hospital.  He’d dressed with a great deal of discomfort that morning—he’d been so accustomed to wearing his drab green army fatigues under his surgical gown and cloth scrubs that he wasn’t quite sure what he was expected to wear now.  </p><p>His brown dress uniform had been dry cleaned exactly five times since his return from Korea and yet it still carried the unmistakable scents of his time there—of ethanol, petroleum jelly, gin, and smoke.   The only change to the uniform was that it seemed to hang rather loosely on his frame now.  Surely the cleaning process would have shrunk the garment, not stretched it!</p><p>When he’d then stood before the mirror and was able to view the entirety of his body in his dress uniform, it was clear what had happened.  He had in fact lost a significant amount of weight.  Gone was the hint of a double chin he often possessed.  Gone was the paunch that had made an appearance, mostly after holidays.  Now he could almost be described as thin.  His jawline and cheekbones had become newly visible to him—he looked entirely different as to how he’d always perceived himself.  Blue eyes widening with surprise, he’d peered down at his shrunken waistline and commenced with tightening his belt.</p><p>“Dr. Winchester, welcome to Boston Mercy,” a colleague greeted him upon his entrance to the hospital, thrusting out an aggressive hand to apparently begin the bonding process.  The man was in his mid-forties with a head of nondescript brown hair and a rather forgettable appearance in general.  Even so, he was dressed impeccably, his name and department clearly embroidered on the breast pocket of his white coat, <i>Daniel Jackson, M.D., Thoracic Surgery</i>.  As was the case with most people, Charles towered over this man.  At the sight of the hand, he balked for a moment, glancing down at the hand with a lump in his throat.  “I’m Daniel Jackson, one of the thoracic surgeons in your team,” the man added, his hand remaining there all the while, waiting.  </p><p>It was odd not to be referred to as Major. Then again, he was, first and foremost, a physician, and so Doctor was a perfectly acceptable greeting.  Swallowing his nerves, Charles twisted his face into a polite little smile and extended his hand as well, shaking hands with his new colleague.  </p><p>“Happy to make your acquaintance. Dr. Jackson,” Charles murmured with a slight bow of the head, his voice breaking mid-sentence.  He could feel his face heating up now, the flush of red traveling from his chest, up his neck, over the features of his face and finding their resting spot at the top of his balding head.  He’d meant to say more, but the muscles of his mouth refused to move.  The surgeon across from him had smiled at his greeting and handshake, but now that it was over, the smile had faded.</p><p>“Please, call me Dan,” his new colleague replied.  Rather than respond verbally, Charles nodded, giving him the faintest of smiles.</p><p>Charles could sense now that he had disquieted his fellow surgeon with his awkwardness.  Thankfully, Dr. Jackson immediately moved onto the next subject at hand, wisely deciding to keep the conversation strictly about business.</p><p>“Come on; let me show you to your office,” Dr. Jackson said with a friendly wave.  “There’s some paperwork to do, measurements for your white coat, and of course, you’ll be getting your keys.  Not to mention a little housewarming gift from all of us in thoracic surgery.”</p><p>As Dr. Jackson turned his back to lead him to his office, Charles grimaced.   He could feel his stomach churning loudly now and shut his eyes briefly, attempting to will his autonomic nervous system into shutting down all digestive processes for the time being.</p><p>What in the world was wrong with him?  This was the career he’d always wanted.  Korea was but a memory now, an experience that, with every hour that passed, distanced itself further and further away from him.  And yet, aspects of it were crystal clear, aspects that made his stomach swim and his pulse race.</p><p>He recalled his arrival at the 4077th, the trek he’d had to make with less than desirable modes of transportation.  He’d been wearing this same brown dress uniform for the trip, a trip which had rendered the uniform caked with dust and dirt.  And yet, he’d still retained his dignity, his air of superiority, in spite of his arrival on a straw-covered wagon.  When he’d first encountered the diminutive Radar O’Reilly, words had flowed easily from his mouth.  Though he’d been brought to a place wholly unfamiliar to him, a mobile army surgical hospital in the middle of nowhere, he’d not let his confidence waver.</p><p>And yet, now he strode after his new colleague, feeling lost and terrified, hands thrust into his pockets, shoulders rounded.  He had been hired to oversee these people, had been <i>chosen</i> for this prominent position, and yet he was somehow intimidated by a man who was his inferior, both in physical size and in position.  What, indeed, had happened to Charles Emerson Winchester III?</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Zenith</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Now that he’d arrived at his spacious office on the seventh floor of Boston Mercy Hospital, Charles had shaken more hands than he’d ever cared to touch, except for those of the man apparently responsible for hiring him, a certain Robert Harwell, chairman of the board, known affectionately to Margaret as her ‘Uncle Bob.’</p><p>Her little bribe, or however Margaret had accomplished this, was the reason he’d been hired; he was certain of it.  He was not chosen for this prestigious position on account of his merits or his accomplishments, rather on his connections, a thought that simultaneously enraged and depressed him.  He suppressed his emotions before they could materialize on his face.</p><p>His office was a perfect square, with a large metal desk roughly centered in the room, positioned in such a way that it directly faced the only door to the office.  Behind the desk was a large window overlooking a tree-lined parking lot, the view obscured by venetian blinds.  Flanking the desk on either side were a quartet of file cabinets positioned flush against the walls, the remainder of wall space covered by empty shelves able to hold a generous assortment of books.  A naked coat tree stood close to the door.  The office was larger than he’d expected and afforded him complete privacy, aside from the seventh-story view outside his office window.  The six surgeons who’d joined him in his office spaced themselves out in the room, making the room appear smaller than it was.  Charles remained close to the door and on the opposite side of the desk, anxiously anticipating the arrival of Robert Harwell, a man whose very existence caused him strife.</p><p> “Please, Dr. Winchester, sit down at your desk.  We want to make sure it’s the right height,” Dr. Jackson remarked.  “I didn’t realize you’d be so… tall.”</p><p> “Ah,” Charles said with a self-effacing chuckle, peering across his desk at the leather chair but refraining from moving towards it.  “I plan on spending much of my time in the O.R., so it should not be such an issue.”</p><p>Just the fact that his office had a door and walls was satisfactory for him.  His two-year tenure in Korea had certainly lowered his once prohibitive standards for what constituted comfort.  At the M.A.S.H, his living quarters in what was called the Swamp was little more than an assortment of random furniture and crates hastily arranged in a spoke-like pattern under a tarp.  A large section of the wall of the Swamp was mere netting, which permitted all drafts, biting insects and outside sounds to permeate the space.   Privacy was impossible to achieve anywhere at the M.A.S.H., save for a dangerous solo venture to the nearby minefield.  </p><p>Aside from his first-day nerves and countless introductions, Charles was more than happy with his new quarters.  In fact, Charles’s spacious office would have easily fit everything from the Swamp—the three cots, barrel stove, the still, the three footlockers, the sets of desks and chairs—and still would have afforded him room for a file cabinet or two.  </p><p>“Are you saying you plan to participate in the surgeries?” another surgeon commented, raising an eyebrow.  “Because our last chief focused primarily on oversight and management of our caseloads—”</p><p>“’Course I plan to participate in surgeries,” Charles replied, stifling another uneasy chuckle.  “What better way to ensure the standard of care is met?”</p><p><i>There</i>, he thought, having heard the words emerge from his mouth.  There was his ego again, having apparently hidden behind a quivering coil of bowel all this time.  Perhaps he would be wholly back to normal by day’s end.  He could feel a little smile spreading across his face—what others might call a smirk.  He’d elicited some nervous chuckles from his coworkers and felt as if he’d regained control. Yes, he would be fine indeed.  <i>Major Ego had returned</i>.</p><p>“Before I forget,” Dr. Jackson commented, “you’ll need to be measured for a white coat sometime today.  You should have yours by the end of the week.  We have plain ones around the department that you can wear for the time being, but they may not be quite long enough.”</p><p>“No matter,” Charles remarked flatly.  “The fact that you have an excess of white coats exceeds my wildest dreams.”  He followed his remark with a little chuckle, scanning the blank faces of his colleagues.  It was apparent now that his sentiments were lost on these stateside men.  </p><p>A silence followed Winchester’s failed attempt at humor.  And yet, he was not downhearted at the lack of response.  It was clear that these people would soon be leaving him alone, the introductions quickly drawing to a close.  He would be left alone with numbers and figures and reports that he could pore through each day, a welcome distraction from intrusive thoughts of Korea and all he’d seen and experienced there.  And then, rather than being forced to fraternize with these people at length about the data, he could cut off any ongoing discussions by promptly heading to the O.R. for a couple of hours.  </p><p>A smile crept onto his face as it appeared his colleagues were feeling anxious, shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot, two of them glancing furtively at their wristwatches.  Should he announce this first dismissal?  He smiled at the thought, preparing what he’d say.</p><p>“Ah, almost forgot your housewarming gift,” Dr. Jackson suddenly commented.  He gestured pleasantly to Charles.  “Please, stand behind your desk, Sir, so we can get a picture of you with it.”  </p><p>As Charles strode around to stand behind his desk, two surgeons left the office and returned with a square box.  The box was wrapped in surgical gauze—<i>such a waste of a precious commodity</i>, Charles mused—and was roughly the size of two very thick hardcover books laid side by side.</p><p>Now there was a camera trained on Charles, and he could feel the blood draining from his face.  He was not one for big splashy measures and did not appreciate being put on the spot in such a way. </p><p>“Go ahead,” Dr. Jackson said, as his colleagues set the object down on Charles’s desk.  “Open it.   We wanted to make you as comfortable as possible, Sir, and so the department did a little research on you, as it were.”</p><p>Charles stared down at the item, dumbfounded.  The trickle of arrogance that had appeared earlier was running down his temples as sweat, having departed his body.  Tentatively he lifted the clean gauze away from the object, unwrapping the priceless commodity from whatever lie beneath it.</p><p>“I will say,” he heard himself utter as he carefully pulled away the wrapping, “for future reference, gentlemen, we will not use gauze for anything but our patients.”<br/>It was then he heard a sprinkling of laughter from his new colleagues.  The six surgeons who’d welcomed him were all chuckling now at his remark.  Did they think that he was attempting to be humorous?</p><p>“I mean it,” he added in a chiding tone, lifting his head now to look at them, his eyes scanning each of their faces.  As he did so, the laughter died down one by one, leaving a thick, uncomfortable silence in its wake. “In Korea,” he continued, now peering straight down, “gauze was often hard to come by, and I am not wont to forget how fortunate we are to possess it in excess here.”</p><p>“It won’t happen again, Sir,” Dr. Jackson muttered, nodding sharply.  “I’m sure you have many stories to share of your time in Korea.  How difficult that must have been.”</p><p>“Right,” Charles muttered, happy that he’d gotten the response he’d wanted. But then he saw it, a square imitation leather case beneath the gauze, a round dial perched on the front aspect of the gift.  <i>Zenith</i>.  He shut his eyes briefly, his heart thudding now.  Moving the gauze away from the object, the only sound in the room that of his increasingly labored breathing, he lifted the lid to reveal a turntable.  They’d purchased him a phonograph.  </p><p>“Is something wrong, Sir?” Dr. Jackson spoke next, approaching the table.  In spite of the room being filled with unfamiliar people, Charles’s eyes were misty as he peered down at the object.</p><p>The surgeon’s question shocked him out of his melancholic reverie, causing Charles to look directly into his fellow surgeon’s eyes, wholly unable to diffuse the situation by forcing a smile.  Rather, Charles blinked rapidly in an attempt to clear the burgeoning tears away.  If he did not show some kind of gratitude for this, he would forever be an object of pity around here, and that he absolutely could not stomach.  He was a Winchester, tall and proud and successful at anything he tried his hand at doing.  This moment of weakness had to be corrected immediately.</p><p>“Thank you,” Charles muttered, though he was anything but thankful for the reminder.  He laid his hand on the damnable object, his face grave as he looked to each of his new colleagues.  “I did not expect this at all.  Thank you all very much.”</p><p>“You are very welcome.  We even bought you a couple of records—your old colleagues at Massachusetts General said you are especially fond of Mozart.  They are under the phonograph.”</p><p>“Ah,” Charles responded, swallowing a gasp of air.  “How very… fitting.”</p><p>He looked back up at his colleagues now, all men that appeared to be near to him in age if not size.  They’d introduced themselves to him shortly after he’d been brought to his office, and he could clearly see their names embroidered on their white coats.  Dr. Daniel Jackson, Dr. Thomas Steinberg, Dr. Arthur Meisner, Dr. Henry Fitzgerald, Dr. Harold Baker, Dr. Clyde O’Rourke.  So far, not one of them behaved even remotely like a certain Benjamin Franklin Pierce or even like a B.J. Hunnicutt, for that matter.  Every last one of them wore clean polished shoes, trousers of an appropriate length and shade, and freshly starched, impeccable white coats.  He looked to be surrounded by six of his equals, men who would uphold the decorum of this department, men who respected surgery and the importance of their positions.  And yet, he’d never felt so alone in his entire life.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thank you to those who have left feedback on the last 2 chapters.  Please leave me some feedback, no matter how brief, because I derive a lot of enjoyment in knowing people are reading my story and are enjoying it in some way!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Sullivan</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"Still here?" the night custodian remarked, having unlocked his office door to fetch the trash can. "Didn't you just start here?"</p><p>Charles peered up bleary-eyed from his desk, having spent the majority of his first day reading over the daily operative reports for the department. It seemed to him as if the early evening hours were key hours in which complications were most likely to arise. The department prided itself on performing complicated lung cancer surgeries, and yet the long-term post-surgical recovery rates were shockingly dismal for such a respected institution. Perhaps the numbers were real, or perhaps his exhausted, glucose-deprived brain was imagining it to be so, just shy of fourteen hours since he'd arrived at the hospital today.</p><p>He'd grown accustomed to the 98% survival rate of the 4077th M.A.S.H., but then again, he never knew what became of the patients after they left the surgical hospital. He, Hunnicutt, Pierce, and Potter were merely responsible for the short-term survival of patients being shuttled to them from Battalion Aid or the 8063rd, and it was highly likely that a significant percentage of their patients had sooner or later succumbed to their hastily repaired wounds.</p><p>Normally he'd never tolerate such a peon addressing him in such a rude manner, but he cared little. In a strange way, the slender silver-haired man before him reminded him of Sergeant Maxwell Q. Klinger. Perhaps it was the comically enlarged features of this man's face, the slightly bowlegged way he walked, or the timbre of his voice; he could not be certain.</p><p>"I imagine you've seen your fair share of overachievers here at Boston Mercy," Charles remarked, managing a smile as he sat behind his desk.</p><p>"Not many with staying power."</p><p>Now Charles was frowning, clasping his hands in front of him as he locked eyes with this man. He wasn't able to produce a verbal retort fast enough, which lead to the continuation of the custodian's diatribe.</p><p>"You start too strong, you're gonna burn yourself right out. Pretty sure that's what happened to the last guy in this office."</p><p>"Surely you jest," Charles replied, making a face. "I've been told he did not even participate in the surger—"</p><p>"You're young enough to have family yet," the janitor remarked, his expression that of pity. "You got a wife waiting at home? Kids?"</p><p>Sergeant Klinger this was not. How dare this cretin march around the hallways at night, judging those who by their very overachieving nature had reached the pinnacle of success! Charles bit his tongue, not wishing to make his first enemy of the day. He knew very well from his time at the M.A.S.H. that berating his subordinates was in fact worse than berating his equals. Angering the <i>little people</i>, as it were, lead to far more difficulties down the line. For one, the small trash can in his office required daily emptying and he could not risk the chance of it being purposely ignored for days on end.</p><p>"Your concern for my well-being is much appreciated, Sir, but rest assured, I am more than capable of handling the load I have been given," Charles remarked with a humorless chuckle, rising up to stand at his full imposing height behind his desk. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have work to do."</p><p>He could see the man peering at his shirt now, the janitor's dark brown eyes focusing on his lapel.</p><p>"Huh," he said upon noticing the oak leaf, his eyes moving to lock on Charles's face. "You military?"</p><p>"How very… perceptive of you," Charles replied, sighing audibly and attempting not to make his reply sound too patronizing. This man certainly had an uncouth, blunt way of speaking. He'd knew that getting any work done now was next to impossible. "Major Charles Emerson Winchester III, U.S. Army. Now, I must insist that—"</p><p>"Were you in Korea?"</p><p>Charles swallowed now, hating that he was being forced into a conversation about something he wished to never speak about again.</p><p>"I was," Charles began quietly, slowing sinking back down into his chair as he pulled a stapled document towards him, "but I'm not at liberty to talk about it at the moment."</p><p>The response from the man was infuriating. The custodian backed out into the hallway, quickly peering left and then right, and re-entered Winchester's office, full trash can still in hand.</p><p>"Just checked—we're all alone. Now, were you a surgeon in Korea too, or did you have your own battalion?"</p><p>"Sir," Charles said, raising his voice now as he planted his hands on his desk, "I have been more than courteous throughout this… <i>interrogation</i>, though I cannot say the same for you. Please be assured that I have good reason not to want to speak of my time there. Goodnight."</p><p>With that, Charles placed his elbow on the desk, resting his forehead against the heel of a hand as he peered down at the document in front of him, choosing to ignore the man from this moment on. He began silently counting the seconds before the man's impending exit.</p><p>"My son died in Korea," the custodian blurted, clear anguish in his voice. Charles winced as if in pain, bowing his head even more deeply as he supported it with one hand. After a moment or two, he tentatively peered up at the man in front of his desk. No longer was there a look of suspicion and curiosity on the janitor's face, but overwhelming sadness. The janitor shook his head, grimacing. "My only boy. Private First Class Larry Sullivan. Five hours shy of the official end to hostilities. <i>Friendly fire</i>, they said it was. He swore an oath to this country, and then they killed him!"</p><p>Charles visibly sank into his chair at this man's admission, his mouth ajar, a stricken expression on his face. At hearing the particularly incongruous manner in which this man had died, he slowly shook his head in disbelief. He watched as the janitor pulled out a military photograph of his boy and held it close enough for Charles to be able to discern the features. The young soldier much resembled his father but with the benefits of youth, possessing the same dark eyes, the same sizable Klinger-esque nose, and the same cleft in his well-formed chin.</p><p>"I'm so sorry," Charles heard himself murmur, his voice uncharacteristically soft.</p><p>It was that same day, July 27th, 1953, that Charles had gazed upon the mangled body of the only surviving Chinese POW, having learned the fate of the other musicians. It was now apparent that he and this discourteous janitor had a bond, a bond formed by shared trauma. Yet now his sadness and pain over the loss of the Chinese musicians seemed trivial by comparison—this man had lost his only son in that war. Charles had been effectively silenced by the man's devastating revelation, and his own trauma seemed insignificant now. He felt a wave of embarrassment, a wave of shame as he averted his eyes to the ground. Perhaps he was weaker than he thought.</p><p>"Anyway, I'm real sorry for bothering you," the janitor added, pain etched into the wrinkles of his face. "By the way, name's Bob—Bob Sullivan. I take back what I said earlier. I get why you're here—it's why I'm here too. Gotta keep my mind off of it."</p><p>Charles could only gape at him with wide blue eyes, slack-jawed and wholly unable to formulate a reply that could bring any sense of comfort to this man.</p><p>"If you ever wanna talk," Bob added, "I come by this department around 10 every night."</p><p>"Right," Charles murmured, staring unblinkingly.</p><p>"Thanks for talking to me, Major."</p><p>An immediate reply came out of the surgeon's mouth, before he'd even considered the consequences.</p><p>"Charles. Please."</p><p>A small grateful bow of the head from the janitor. Since his arrival today, this was the first person with which Charles had invited to be on a first-name basis… not his colleagues, not the other medical professionals and members of administration he'd been introduced to today, but a mere janitor. Perhaps it was getting too late in the day to remain at work—his brain was clearly malfunctioning.</p><p>"Goodnight, Charles."</p><p>In spite of the forced familiarity of the greeting, Charles found himself giving the janitor a tight smile of understanding. As he was somehow unable to verbalize anymore, Charles briefly bowed his head and shut his eyes as a reply.</p><p>After the custodian had closed the door behind him, leaving an emptied trash can in his wake, Charles shut his eyes and swallowed. Why was he so pathetic, to allow something as inconsequential as the death of five foreign strangers he'd only known for a matter of weeks, to affect him so? He'd never been able to speak to those men directly due to the language barrier, had only spent parts of various days teaching them Mozart, and yet now he had been rendered incapable of listening to the music he'd always loved.</p><p>He could not be so weak, so affected by his situation. This Sullivan fellow seemed to be functioning rather well in spite of his massive loss. Now, he was a <i>Winchester</i>, born and bred for success and strength of mind and character. He could not allow such a minute event to so drastically alter his proclivities, his behavior. It was then he glanced apprehensively over at the phonograph on his desk, the gauze still gathered around it, the disregarded records still tucked underneath.</p><p>Grimacing, Charles gingerly moved the phonograph towards the center of the desk, revealing the albums. They were the same kind he'd had in Korea, shellac records that produced a particular richness and depth of sound that vinyl LPs could not quite achieve. He picked up the stack of five records they'd purchased him and began thumbing through them.</p><p>There it was, the second record in the stack: Mozart's Clarinet Quintet K581 in A major, the infamous song he'd taught the POWs. This was the record he had shattered only moments after he'd first laid eyes upon the dying Chinese flautist.</p><p>Charles swallowed loudly, sliding the clean new record out of its sleeve and delicately placing it on the turntable. With practiced grace, he set the speed of the turntable and moved the stylus over to the record.</p><p>The plaintive notes of the clarinet filled the air of Charles Winchester's office. He shut his eyes, gooseflesh appearing on his skin at the music that now haunted him. Supporting his head in his hands, he forced himself to listen. He forced himself to listen as his mind conjured up images of the five Chinese POWs, of the picture that Bob Sullivan had held up of his dead son.</p><p>And for the first time since that fateful day, Charles Winchester allowed himself to cry.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thank you to those who have left feedback so far! Please leave me some feedback, no matter how brief, because I derive a lot of enjoyment in knowing people are reading my story and are enjoying it in some way!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Retraction</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Chapter 5</p><p>"Will you always be so long?" Mrs. Winchester commented, noticing her son Charles strolling with the utmost of care through the foyer of his family estate. It was long past dark, long past dinner that he'd finally arrived home. She'd been sitting at the grand piano, making some notes on an upcoming charity performance but not practicing any pieces at this late of an hour. Immediately she stood up from the keyboard as he entered the room.</p><p>"Not quite," Charles curtly replied, barely giving her a second glance. He would have to leave work well before ten in the evening from now on; otherwise, he might be forced yet again to converse with Bob Sullivan about Korea, which he was not prepared to do. In fact, he'd decided that he would devote no further thoughts to Korea; he had grieved tonight, not only for Bob's son but for his own situation, and now he could move on.</p><p>"I had the cook save some of the leftovers from dinner," Mrs. Winchester said, following Charles toward the staircase, noticing that he did not slow his pace for her. "She can reheat them for—"</p><p>"No need," Charles interrupted, swiftly striding by the woman, his head bowed, and jogged up the stairs. He did not so much as look back at her. "Goodnight."</p><p>----------------------</p><p>Charles entered his bedroom suite, the duvet on his bed already turned down for the night. Someone, most likely his sister or a servant ordered by her, had brought his phonograph and records into his room, placing them directly beside his bed, directly in his line of sight. Unlike the phonograph his colleagues had gotten him, this one was slightly larger and encased in solid wood. It was of a significantly higher quality than the Zenith, and yet, it elicited the same feelings of unease as the other player had.</p><p>This would not do at all. On impulse, Charles decided to stow away the phonograph where it would not be seen. Thankfully his bedroom suite was spacious, affording him the space to do so. Exactly one half of Charles's bedchamber was reserved for sleep, consisting of a queen canopy bed perpendicular to the door, with two side tables flanking it, in addition to two large bureaus, and a cedar chest at the foot of the bed. The other half of his chambers was in essence a personal library, its three walls no less than large wooden bookshelves at least eight feet tall, a cluster of leather sofas and small end tables and coffee tables arranged in the middle of the reading area, a fireplace on the far wall. Not only that, but he had his own personal master bath whose entrance was a short distance from his bed; during his gastrointestinal ailment, he'd only needed to stagger ten feet or so to the bathroom door.</p><p>Upon shutting the door to his room, Charles immediately set down his briefcase and lugged the damnable phonograph to the far corner of the room, setting it down as far away from the bed as he could manage. Throughout his life so far, he was wont to confront an obstacle as it approached and then he moved on to the next obstacle. This particular obstacle, his newfound dread of music, had been stuck in his psyche for the last two weeks. It was his duty now as a physician, as an officer, as a <i>Winchester</i>, to move past this. And yet, his moving the obstacle elsewhere in an attempt to ignore it was hardly the way a Winchester should cope.</p><p>Charles smiled as he covered the phonograph with a knit throw, effectively hiding it from sight. Even after a 14-hour day at work, he'd still managed to jog up the stairs and heft a large item 30 feet or so without even breaking a sweat. In spite of his relative lack of food these past couple of weeks, he was still able to function as a Winchester should.</p><p>Tomorrow he would be past all of this; this would never happen again. He'd allowed himself to grieve, and now he could move on, as it were. No more would he dwell on the events of June 27th, 1953. Rather, he would look to his life ahead, the life he'd always wanted.</p><p>----------------------</p><p>A week passed, as Charles Winchester quickly settled into the habits and patterns of the Department of Thoracic Surgery. Each day he'd arrive at work shortly after dawn, well before the six other surgeons in his department. He would purchase himself some coffee from the hospital canteen and would sit in his office in silence for hours, scrutinizing and writing notes in the thick pile of documents discussing the surgical procedures the department had performed the day before, any complications that arose, and the outcomes of each procedure. He'd take a quick lunch break in the hospital cafeteria, carrying his documents with him in a briefcase so that no time would be wasted. At the end of the normal working day, there would be a department meeting in which Charles would address these documents with his staff, in addition to discussing procedures scheduled for the following day and assigning surgeons to future procedures based on their caseloads, outcomes, and areas of expertise.</p><p>Long after the other surgeons had gone home, Charles would remain in his office with the documents and his thoughts until 9 pm or so, to ensure he was able to avoid Bob Sullivan, and Korea, by extension. He would then head for home, briefcase in hand, and go to bed with no dinner, starting his day again in the same manner. He worked these same long hours through his first weekend in abject silence, a silence driven by the complete absence of people in his department. His phonograph, effectively silenced since that first day, had begun to be buried under a stack of papers now, remaining on his desk and yet partially hidden from view.</p><p>It had been Charles's dream to be Chief of Thoracic Surgery. And yet, here he was, an imposter in his own mind, spending all of his time sitting at a desk, much like a company clerk. He missed being part of the O.R. And that was why, at the staff meeting last night, on the second Monday he'd been working at Boston Mercy, he'd assigned himself to be the lead surgeon for a complicated lobectomy case.</p><p>-------------------------</p><p>"Retraction," Charles stated again, his voice more insistent than it had been the previous time he'd asked. It was the first time he'd participated in surgery at Boston Mercy, and with every movement of his scalpel, every flexion of his wrists or fingers, he felt Dr. Jackson's eyes boring into him from his position on the opposite side of the patient's chest, surely waiting for him to make a mistake. The nurse standing beside Charles he would guess was barely in her twenties, with mousy brown hair and a rather delicate, waifish frame. He supposed she was deaf as well, for she still hadn't given him the retraction he'd now asked for twice.</p><p>His imposing height casting a shadow on the wall behind him, Charles leaned over the supine patient in front of him, the incision not quite wide enough to access the area of tumor he had planned to address next. His environment was utilitarian enough. The drapes on the patient were clean and white, the operating light bright and unflickering. Upon entering the O.R. during his initial tour of the department of thoracic surgery, he could see that the surgical equipment at Boston Mercy was top of the line. Their anesthesia machines and masks gave their patients the greatest chance of success. Unlike the O.R. at the M.A.S.H., the operating rooms of Boston Mercy were spacious, well-lit, and far quieter. Supplies, both perishable and nonperishable, were constantly restocked and organized for quick access and effortless disposal. Boston Mercy was on the cutting edge of medical science, and he was fortunate to work in such a hospital. In fact, the first successful cardiac surgery with the assistance of the newly developed heart-lung machine had occurred a mere two months ago in Philadelphia, and Boston Mercy was already midway through their fundraising efforts to develop a machine of their own.</p><p>Even though the O.R. was far beyond what the M.A.S.H. could ever provide him, Charles found himself aggravated beyond comprehension at the moment. How difficult was it for this damned nurse to obey his simple request for retraction? Could it be that this nurse was ignoring him on purpose as a sign of a lack of respect for him? Perhaps she knew the underhanded means in which he'd gotten this job and was showing her dissent the only way she knew how. With every passing second without his request fulfilled, he grew more and more impatient and could feel himself sweating through his scrubs, his teeth gritted so tightly together that his jaw ached.</p><p>Granted, he'd had to slow himself down quite a bit to perform this surgery, a lobectomy to remove a spiderlike lung tumor extending anteriorly from the inferior lobe of his patient's right lung. The rushed meatball surgery to which he'd become accustomed had made him more impulsive and less meticulous than his extensive training at Harvard and Massachusetts General afforded him. Not only that, but it had always been his fear that with each additional M.A.S.H. surgical procedure, he'd lose more and more of his technical expertise and skills. Even so, he had performed well over one hundred lobectomies before joining the M.A.S.H., so he had plenty of experience to fall back on. Thankfully, it was clear that his technical skills had not diminished in the slightest, but his patience certainly had. The nurses at the M.A.S.H. had been able to anticipate his needs even during marathon meatball surgeries, and yet, even at the glacial pace he'd set, his nurse was failing him repeatedly.</p><p>Thoughts of Major Margaret Houlihan came to him, the most dependable nurse he'd ever known. There were certainly aspects of Korea that Charles did not miss: the lack of privacy, the food, the showers, the smells, the latrines, the P.A., the incessant noise, the difficulty with communicating with family back home, the constant deluge of jokes from his bunkmates; pretty much every aspect of his life in that cesspool. And yet, he could not include the nurses in his list of grievances. Major Houlihan had trained her nurses well, which certainly contributed to the astonishing efficiency and the high survival rate of the 4077th M.A.S.H.</p><p>Though the M.A.S.H. O.R. had been less than ideal in many ways, the nurses of the 4077th completed their duties at the highest standards under the effective guidance of Major Houlihan. In spite of the numerous mysterious injuries presented to the O.R., their true severities often only discovered upon opening, the nurses set up appropriate amounts of supplies in the surgical trays: suitable surgical instruments, silk, gauze, sponges; and they presented them in a timely manner. They aided the surgeons in glove changes, positioned the patient in an appropriate surgical position for the procedure at hand, set up IV lines for blood and medications, and aided in retraction of organs, suctioning of bodily fluids, and placing surgical sponges, in addition to accounting for all materials used. All the nurses were capable of closing the patient on their own. They took part in the cleanup of the O.R. after the rounds of surgery were finished. And most impressively, Margaret had trained her nurses as anesthetists: they were not only able to anesthetize the patient, but they were able to maintain anesthesia and monitor vitals throughout the procedures.</p><p>These nurses at Boston Mercy were spoiled, he'd decided. Not only was there an anesthesiologist to induce and maintain anesthesia, but the nurses here weren't even responsible for cleanup; that was left to various housekeepers. It had now been two times that this nurse had not responded to his request for retraction, in a growing list of failings thus far. This girl had not been trained by Major Houlihan; that was for damn sure.</p><p>"Are you awake, Nurse?" Charles commented in his Boston accent, making her jump in surprise.</p><p>"I'm sorry, Sir," she said quietly, voice muffled by her mask. "What did you need me to do?"</p><p>"Must I repeat myself a third time?" he grumbled, rolling his eyes and sighing. "Retract the incision," he snarled, this time through gritted teeth. It was fortunate she could not see his baring of teeth beneath his surgical mask.</p><p>---------------------</p><p>"Good job, Dr. Winchester," Dr. Jackson commented as they strode down the hall a couple of hours later, the surgery a resounding success. "That was a complicated case. The procedure called for a simple lobectomy, and yet you went above and beyond in cutting the tumor away from the pulmonary artery."</p><p>"Yes, well, I couldn't just leave it there to invade the adventitia, which it was bound to do, sooner or later," Charles replied, thrusting his hands into the pockets of his white coat, happy to be free of the sweat-soaked scrubs.</p><p>"You'd be correct—and that would have surely killed the patient in only a matter of months."</p><p>Charles managed to make a small close-lipped smile at the remark, and yet the element of humor that Pierce and Hunnicutt had always injected into their retorts was notably missing in this man's reply.</p><p>"No denying that," the taller surgeon quickly added, feeling strangely awkward.</p><p>Dr. Jackson peered up at him earnestly.</p><p>"Are you glad to be back in the operating room?"</p><p>"Indeed, I am," Charles said with a smile. "It's an effective way to gauge the competence of the nursing staff and the overall organization of the O.R. and its procedures. Far better than hearsay in that regard."</p><p>"Speaking of which, Sir, what <i>is</i> your opinion of our nursing staff? I noticed Nurse Hays did not respond right away when you asked for retraction."</p><p>"Ah. I imagine it to be one of those… you know, <i>first-time</i> jitters," Charles replied. He could hear Dr. Jackson clear his throat as they strode side by side, approaching the office area of the department.</p><p>"Well, actually, Sir, Nurse Hays has been working in the department for three yea—"</p><p>Charles spoke over him to better clarify his explanation. "By <i>first time<i>, of course, I was referring to Nurse Hays being the first nurse to assist the new Chief Thoracic Surgeon on a case."</i></i></p><p>
  <i>
    <i>"Right," Dan replied. "Of course, Sir. That could very well be the issue. You are larger-than-life in more ways than one, and your reputation precedes you."</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Charles blinked, considering. This was by all intents and purposes a rather unambiguous compliment, but he was still not convinced he was worthy of it. He wasn't quite accustomed to the dearth of humor in many of his new colleagues, the forced boy scout manner in which they all seemed to speak to some degree. Did he actually miss the wit of Captains Pierce and Hunnicutt, or had the expectation of humor simply become engrained in him, just as that tumor had become ingrained in the tissues of his patient's chest?</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>---------------------</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>"It's about noon," Dr. Jackson said, glancing at the pocket watch he'd stowed in his white coat as they stood outside Charles's office. "Would you like to get some lunch?"</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Lunch for Charles was a short interlude to the hospital cafeteria three floors below, hitherto a solo interlude in which he brought along a briefcase with the documents he was expected to review. He did not want to make a shared lunch a habit, because it would be mean that not only would he be getting less work done, but also that the break would extend well beyond the twenty minutes he allowed himself.</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Charles opened his mouth in his attempt to conjure up the politest rejection he could, but Dr. Jackson spoke again.</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>"I do realize you have been eating in the hospital cafeteria, so if that is your preference, I'd be honored if you'd join me there."</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>"I do appreciate the invitation," Charles began, "but being as I've spent the entire morning in surgery, I really must catch up on examining yesterday's operative reports." He paused for a moment. "Perhaps another time?"</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>"Certainly, Dr. Winchester," Dr. Jackson replied. Again Charles did not correct him, to inform him that he could use his first name as a greeting. He knew that he'd been permitted from day one to refer to Dr. Jackson as Dan, and yet he'd deftly avoided any direct use of the man's name.</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Charles closed his office door behind him and sat down at his desk with a sigh. Damn it. Now he wouldn't be able to eat lunch today. The hospital cafeteria only offered lunch between the hours of 1100 and 1300 hours and he would miss his chance.</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>He sighed, looking at the pile of papers on his desk. Well, he did have forms to review. It was certainly not a very exciting aspect of his job, poring retrospectively over areas requiring improvement for each and every procedure.</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Surely he would have to add himself to the O.R. schedule at least once a week, perhaps twice a week. In spite of his lack of lunch today, he was more satisfied than he had been since beginning his career at Boston Mercy little more than a week before.</i>
  </i>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thank you to all of you who have left me feedback so far!  I love any kind of feedback, so please tell me what you think!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Correspondence</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It was now the second Friday of Charles Winchester's new career. Having been unable to schedule another shift in the O.R. for himself this past week, Charles sneered with distaste at the thick pile of documents that waited expectantly in front of him. He'd been sitting here staring at the pile now for at least a half an hour, and yet hadn't yet brought himself to pore through each individual page and make notes as he was wont to do.</p><p>Having realized he was getting nowhere with the mound of documents, Charles glanced with trepidation at the phonograph that he'd neglected to play since the first day on the job. It had been sitting on the corner of his massive desk, only because he did not want to appear ungrateful for the gift; otherwise he would have been happy to throw it out the window. Not only that, but he hadn't interacted with the only person at Boston Mercy who'd been given permission to call him Charles since that same evening, a night janitor named Bob Sullivan. He'd been able to avoid him thus far by leaving the office well before ten, the time Bob had said he came through the department. He grimaced, realizing the inherent cowardice of the act. At least Bob didn't seem to be taking it personally; his trash can was faithfully emptied every night.</p><p>It was a self-imposed hell Charles had designed for himself at Boston Mercy, of 15-hour desk work fueled by strong coffee and a single meal of barely edible hospital food, no friends or family with whom to converse, no dinner, and an early bedtime, to rise again to repeat the cycle. His surgeon colleagues were such polar opposites of the people he'd grown to know and care for these past two years, that it was as if he'd been transported to another planet. There were no sarcastic quips, no tattered bathrobes, no food fights, no operatic singing at wholly inappropriate times, no jokes at his expense. Of course, he was now in a position of power and had the ability to fire anyone he so chose. Perhaps these men would reveal their true natures in time, after they'd gotten to know him better. Right now, however, his coworkers were being extra careful not to offend him, and their canned replies to his commentary in the retrospective meetings at the end of each weekday were truly insipid.</p><p>Strangely enough, Charles found himself missing Bob Sullivan and the insolent manner in which the janitor had forced him to answer his questions, to think about Korea, to think about himself. He'd thought he'd grieved properly following that impromptu meeting eleven days ago, but he hadn't made any progress in enjoying music again. Quickly he decided that his response to music would most easily gauge how well he was coping with life in general.</p><p>Gritting his teeth, Charles moved the stack of papers off of the phonograph and opened the lid of the music player. Wincing, he tentatively placed the stylus on the record, the only record he'd listened to since arriving at Boston Mercy, the Mozart Clarinet Quintet he had placed on his turntable that very first evening.</p><p>He shut his eyes as he listened to the music, cradling his head in his hands. Each note tore through him like shrapnel. No, he wasn't ready for this yet. He wasn't ready for the guilt he now felt, the ingratitude in his own heart, the cowardice in avoiding a mere janitor who'd suffered a great loss. Before he could allow his eyes to water, he quickly removed the stylus from the groove and closed the phonograph, sighing as he did so.</p><p>Bob Sullivan's boy was dead, along with nearly thirty-four thousand other American troops. And here he sat alone in his office, seemingly unappreciative that his life had been spared. Unlike all the lost souls, he now had a prestigious career and could resume his upper-class life as a member of one of the most elite families in New England. And yet, he mused, he'd decided to squander those gifts and sit fifteen hours a day in his office whilst being paid for nine, inspecting stack after stack of white paper, and speaking to no one unless absolutely necessary.</p><p>So many would never return to their parents, their wives, their children. If the bullet that had penetrated his hat so many months ago had followed a different trajectory, he would have been genuinely missed by very few people. His sister Honoria was perhaps the only person who would have grieved for him, but then she could have found an Irishman or Italian or farmer or shoe clerk and forgotten him just as easily.</p><p>He opened his eyes now, frowning with mouth ajar at his own awful train of thought. How <i>dare</i> he judge his sister for her decisions in love? Had he not learned anything from his time in Korea? Had he really just regressed to the type of closed-minded fool he'd been while playing cribbage with Colonel Baldwin in Tokyo? He was an ingrate, an ingrate wholly undeserving of the gifts he'd been given. Perhaps he deserved this mental torture, this tangible pain he felt while listening to music. It was a fitting punishment for his weakness, for his lack of gratitude for all that he had been given.</p><p>The knock at his door made him startle, eyes focusing on the thankfully locked slab of wood as he instinctively rubbed his eyes to remove any signs of emotion. He glanced at his wristwatch—it was nearly lunchtime.</p><p>"Dr. Winchester," a female voice called out. It was not the voice of Dr. Jackson, come to invite him to lunch, to be turned down for the fourth time in two weeks. "A letter came for you."</p><p>Charles frowned with confusion at the thought of a letter arriving directly to his office. What could it be? Had someone figured out how he'd gotten this job and was waiting to oust him?</p><p>He strode to the door, opening it to find the secretary holding a rather weather-beaten envelope with many stamps on it. She said nothing else, handing him the letter and then heading back to her desk. He shut his door quietly, peering down at the envelope.</p><p>
  <i>Major Charles Emerson Winchester III, M.D.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Department of Thoracic Surgery</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Boston Mercy Hospital</i>
</p><p>
  <i>800 Washington St.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Boston, Massachusetts 02111 U.S.A</i>
</p><p>The return address was inscrutable, the ink having run into an illegible blue smear. Based on the stamps on the envelope, the letter seemed to have originated from Tokyo. Could it be the money he was owed by Colonel Baldwin? He doubted it. Who else from his life, from the M.A.S.H., would currently be in Tokyo?</p><p>He tore open the corner of the envelope. An odor wafted from the inside of the envelope, the unmistakable aroma of perfume. He knew that perfume very well, had been nearly asphyxiated from its fumes during countless long days of surgery in Korea. Major Margaret Houlihan had written him a letter.</p><p>His eyes widening, he brought the envelope back to his desk and tore it the remainder of the way open. The letter was postmarked for nearly two weeks ago. It had now been twenty-three days since he'd been in the states, twenty-six since he'd last set foot in Korea.</p><p>He'd never thought he'd hear from Margaret again, let alone so soon, mailing him a letter a mere two weeks after they'd bid each other goodbye. Had the inscription he'd written for her inside that poetry book he'd given her affected her so? He <i>had</i> made sure to include his contact information after the inscription, namely, his home address and phone number, but he'd never imagined she'd go so far as to actually contact him! And why had she sent it to Boston Mercy and not his home address, which he'd graciously provided to her?</p><p>What in the world did Margaret have to say to him? Before leaving the M.A.S.H., he'd gifted Margaret several of his records as well as the book of sonnets—did she seek to return his items to him? Had he left an item of extreme importance inside a record sleeve? Or did she expect him to grovel to her regarding her role in his acquiring this prestigious position?</p><p>Granted, he'd treated her with disdain upon learning of her underhanded scheme to get him the Chief of Thoracic Surgery position. Did she expect him to apologize for his coldness towards her? He had every reason to be upset with her for what she'd done and he would <i>not</i> apologize for his behavior.</p><p>Margaret had made him very angry. The more he thought about what she'd done, the angrier he became. In fact, his behavior upon arriving back in the States was all her fault: his weight loss, his GI issues, his anxiety, his lack of restorative sleep, his workaholic mannerisms. If she'd simply allowed his job application to move through the usual channels, he wouldn't be left with the suspicion that he had not truly earned his place here.</p><p>A Winchester did not rely on cronyism to succeed. He'd attained the honor of <i>summa cum laude</i> at Harvard Medical School solely through his own work and determination; he had not bought his grades. He'd acquired a highly coveted residency in thoracic surgery at Massachusetts General due to his merits while at Harvard Medical School. And yet, Margaret Houlihan had somehow bought him this position.</p><p>It was then that Charles sat back, eyes wide as something truly horrifying occurred to him; what if the <i>Winchester name</i> had been the reason for not only his entry to Harvard but his residency at Massachusetts General? He'd remained in the Boston area for his education, an area well-familiar with the Winchester surname, a name signifying great status and influence. What if <i>he</i> in fact was guilty of nepotism these many years through his very birthright?</p><p>The issues he'd brought up in his mind caused an intestinal cramp reminiscent of his recently experienced GI issues, and he blanched, swallowing at his bodily response to this piece of information. Again Margaret was at fault; were it not for her letter, he would not have considered the thought for a moment. He scowled at Margaret's letter and placed it aside, his intestines gurgling loudly. A tiny whimper escaping his lips, Charles stood up and promptly headed out of his office for the restroom.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Honoria</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"Charles!" called out the feminine voice, as Charles Winchester strode quickly toward the staircase, looking gaunt and serious and rather intent on achieving some kind of speed walking record. In one hand he carried his briefcase and in the other, the envelope from Tokyo, opened but still unread. Thankfully he'd only had to experience one bout of intestinal issues today; upon focusing his mind on the postoperative reports, the gurglings disappeared as abruptly as they'd begun.</p><p>At the sound of his sister's voice emerging from the shadows in the drawing room, Charles slowed his pace, squinting into the darkness in an attempt to spot her. It was 9:30 pm and he was surprised she'd not already retired to her chambers for the night.</p><p>Honoria appeared out of the darkness of the drawing room, its only light source the dim sconces mounted along its far wall. She was of moderate height, with a rather average build, but it was clear they were siblings, for they possessed the same sandy blond hair and pale blue hooded eyes. Honoria's hair was pulled back into a twist, its length barely skimming the top of her shoulders. She wore a deep purple house dress that ended below the knee and was gathered at the waist, the sleeves terminating at her elbows.</p><p>"We haven't spoken in d-days," she stammered, wringing her hands. "D-do you want to t-talk?"</p><p>"The question is not <i>do I want to</i>, dear Sister, but is rather, <i>am I willing to have you force me to do so</i>," Charles replied, looking grim.</p><p>"S-so… are you?" she asked, managing a half-hearted smile in spite of her haunted eyes. His shoulders slumped with defeat. He'd not recalled his sibling looking so disturbed. Had something happened at home this last week?</p><p>-------------------------------------</p><p>Honoria and Charles sat together in his bedroom, facing each other on the plush leather sofas that had been arranged to form a cozy reading nook in the midst of several imposing shelves of medical tomes. A fireplace crackled in the hearth, casting a warm glow on their faces. Upon entering the room, Charles had placed his briefcase on the floor, the envelope on an end table nearby.</p><p>"You've l-lost a lot of w-weight," Honoria commented, studying the face of her brother, his close-cropped hair, the angle of his jaw. "And you haven't eaten dinner s-since coming home, n-not even on the w-weekend."</p><p>"I would blame my fairly recent digestive issues for my weight loss," he commented. "Certainly not our fare."</p><p>"If that's true, then why haven't you h-had d-dinner with us?"</p><p>"I suppose my appetite hasn't yet returned in full. Then and only then, my paunch and double chin will return in triumph."</p><p>Honoria returned his comment with a smile of uncertainty over his use of self-deprecating humor, an incredibly rare form of humor for a Winchester to employ.</p><p>"I d-don't recall you having to spend s-so many hours working when you were at M-Massachusetts General," she blurted. "I m-miss you."</p><p>"I miss you too, Honoria, but rest assured, I am merely becoming habituated to the many responsibilities I now have. Once I have reached a satisfying homeostasis, I can then resume the aspects of my life that I have been neglecting."</p><p>"H-how long will that take?"</p><p>"I cannot say for sure."</p><p>Silence passed between the siblings, a silence in which Charles wished he was already taking a shower and readying himself for bed. Five am was not so many hours away, and he needed his sleep for the long day ahead.</p><p>"W-what's that in the envelope there?" Honoria suddenly said, pointing at the envelope from Tokyo he'd lain on the end table.</p><p>"Oh," he said, glancing at the envelope. "Correspondence."</p><p>He could see her roll her eyes.</p><p>"Who's it f-from?"</p><p>"Major Margaret Houlihan, the head nurse of the 4077th M.A.S.H. She and I worked side by side for the better part of two years."</p><p>"Wh-what's it say?"</p><p>"My, aren't you a Nosy Parker?" he said, flashing her a little smile as he patted the envelope. "In fact, I have not yet read the letter."</p><p>She narrowed her eyes at him in confusion.</p><p>"Is that not the p-point of a letter, to r-read it?"</p><p>"I imagine I will at some point. No matter, I—"</p><p>"I'm v-very curious about what's in that letter," she interrupted, grinning widely. He could see that she was practically salivating as she stared at the end table. Since when did his sister become a gossip monger?</p><p>"Good heavens, Honoria," he muttered, chuckling dryly, "I don't recall you being quite so… pushy."</p><p>"Open it, Charles—p-please…"</p><p>"Already done," he said matter-of-factly. "I have simply refrained from removing the letter from the envelope."</p><p>"Well, wh-what's the hold-up? P-please, Charles. I want to know more about your t-time in—"</p><p>"Dear sister," he said, wide-eyed and taken aback by her insistence, "I am not certain what has brought on this level of hysterics in your being privy to a rather… personal communication."</p><p>"Ooooo," she said, smiling toothily now. "M-Margaret W-Winchester; I like the sound of it."</p><p>Knowing her brother better than anyone else in his life, Honoria was quite familiar with the precise type of manipulation required to elicit desired actions from Charles.</p><p>"Not hardly," he shot back dryly. "I am sure it's a trifle. Nothing of any concern or importance."</p><p>"Then read it, why don't you!"</p><p>---------------------------------</p><p>With Honoria's pale blue eyes boring into him, Charles slid the letter from the envelope, sighing audibly as he did so. Margaret had folded the letter in half, revealing that she'd only written on the front of the paper. Apparently this was going to be some sort of brief, customary follow-up that she most likely had done with the other M.A.S.H. surgeons. Perhaps she'd typed up some kind of general update on her own current situation and made photocopies to send to nurses and surgeons both.</p><p>And yet, when he unfolded it, he realized her letter was handwritten and specifically addressed to him.</p><p>
  <i>Dear Charles,</i>
</p><p>
  <i>How have you been, old friend? I can't believe it's already been two weeks since we were all last together. How is your job at Boston Mercy going? By the time you get this letter, you'll probably have been working there for two weeks or more. I'm sure you are really impressing everyone there!</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Thank you again for letting me use the jeep for all my stuff. Even with all the room I had, my phonograph bounced off the back on our way to the 8063rd and broke. As soon as it happened, I immediately thought of you—a true tragedy, you'd most likely say!</i>
</p><p>
  <i>I can't thank you enough for giving me the book of sonnets. Reading through a couple of them a night has helped me to fall asleep. It's a lot harder now, for whatever reason, getting to sleep. Right now, I'm in a hotel in Tokyo on furlough, and I can't sleep yet again, so I thought I'd write you.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>After my furlough is over in a couple of weeks, I am planning to officially move back to the States and find a job in a civilian hospital. I was hoping to visit you before I officially find a 'home base.' I'd make sure to arrive on a weekend, so I wouldn't be disturbing your busy workdays.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>I miss you, Charles, as a colleague and as a friend. I hope to hear back from you soon.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>To quote Elizabeth Barrett Browning, "call me by that name—and I, in truth with the same heart, will answer and not wait."</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Yours,</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Margaret</i>
</p><p>Below the text of the letter, she'd provided her contact information, which probably wasn't even applicable at this point in time. Perhaps in waiting for him to reply to a letter and not a phone call or telegram, she'd already forgotten the proposed visit and was settling in to her Stateside job at this very moment.</p><p>Charles had sat in silence as he'd read through the letter, which was certainly intended for him and him only. He could not help but wonder if the letter she'd written for Pierce was full of romantic platitudes. That final kiss she and Pierce had shared on the compound certainly suggested such feelings existed between them. Perhaps Pierce was the reason she couldn't sleep—she'd rather be partaking in other activities with Pierce. But really, why did that matter? What mattered was that she wanted to visit <i>him</i>.</p><p>He blinked as he reached the end of the document, widening his eyes at the quote from the sonnet book she had referenced.</p><p>Life was already complicated enough, with his needing to not only complete his duties as expected but far beyond, in addition to getting ample sleep and sustenance in the meantime. His social life, his home life, his personal life, would have to wait until a tolerable schedule had been established. A visit from Margaret would surely complicate matters; for one, her presence would make it difficult for him to go to work on the weekend as he had done the weekend before and planned to do this coming weekend. Another potential complication was the strange undertow of anger that still flared up inside him in response to Margaret's imprudent choice to use her connection to Boston Mercy in his being hired.</p><p>Sighing wearily, his face drawn, Charles folded the letter and slid it back into the envelope on the end table. It was then he recalled Honoria watching him, and peered up at her, his eyes solemn.</p><p>"What did it s-say?" Honoria asked, ignoring his expression as she continued to grin at him.</p><p>"Margaret—<i>Major Houlihan</i>—wishes to visit before she officially finds a job Stateside. It's merely a formality. She did specifically mention her phonograph breaking, so perhaps I could—"</p><p>"D-don't you d-dare give her your ph-phonograph," Honoria <i>tsk</i>ed, her expression turning sour. "D-do you know how m-much time I sp-spent researching which one F-Father should buy you? <i>Too</i> much time!"</p><p>"Honoria," Charles began, "I do appreciate your thoughtfulness, but that <i>phonograph</i>," he said, pointing with disgust at the offending item, now exiled to the far corner of the room, "is of no further value to me. I am done with music and all it entails. Now, Margaret, on the other hand, continues to appreciat—"</p><p>"What h-happened to you?!" Honoria blurted, the glint of tears in her eyes. Charles swallowed. It had been far too long that he had remained silent on the matter at hand; he would have to explain himself to his beloved sister.</p><p>-------------------------------------------------</p><p>"It's my fault!" Charles murmured, his face pained. "If I hadn't encountered those musicians at the latrines… if I hadn't allowed them to follow me back to the compound… they might still be alive today. I spent weeks, Honoria, <i>weeks</i> teaching them to play Mozart, when in fact I should have driven them to the damned POW camp that very first day to ensure their safety. I <i>used</i> them for my own entertainment. They were <i>innocent</i>."</p><p>Honoria had since moved next to her brother on the leather sofa and had placed a supportive arm around his back. She'd never seen her brother look so broken as he explained the entirety of his encounters with the Chinese musicians, including what had become of them.</p><p>"Did you not tell me b-before that the M-MASH was surrounded by a m-minefield? They could have ridden their m-motorcycle over there and died the very d-day you met them."</p><p>"That's entirely plausible," he muttered. "But what I can't fathom is the innate unfairness of it all. During that same time, a fellow surgeon at the 4077th ended up in the psychiatric ward. He'd finally lost his mind, but not because of the horrific casualties or the actions of enemy soldiers. Rather, he'd gone mad on account of the actions of a <i>mother</i>, a mother so desperate to protect her fellow passengers from the enemy that she did the unthinkable."</p><p>"A mother?" Honoria questioned, pondering the meaning of the unthinkable act. "What happened?"</p><p>"But why should <i>they</i> have had to die," Charles began, ignoring her question, "those blameless musicians, their only sin being in the wrong place at the wrong time?" Tears were now streaming down his face, wholly ignored as he continued. "A baby, smothered by his own mother for the greater good. The young soldier on his last day of active duty, killed by his own countrymen. Why must they die, all the while I am allowed to live?"</p><p>Honoria gaped at Charles as he wept openly, his head bowed low, broad shoulders rounded, hands clasped together in his lap. The Korean war had irreparably damaged her tall, strong, resilient brother. He did not so much as look up while speaking and she felt out of place in the room, an unwelcome eavesdropper in the outpouring of her brother's customarily guarded thoughts.</p><p>"When I hear music now, I see them," Charles continued, his voice thick with emotion, "the musicians, the baby, Sullivan, the innumerable nameless faces I saw in triage that never made it into the O.R." He shook his head, rubbing his eyes as he did so. "Modern society is well-aware of the impermanence of mankind—we need only look at Pompeii, ancient Egypt, the Holocaust—and yet, we in cold blood continue to seek out new ways to kill each other in spite of it all."</p><p>She didn't know what to say to him, and decided to instead remain silent and listen, her warm hand on his heaving back.</p><p>"I thought I could save lives as a surgeon, to make a real difference in the world, but now I realize that I am a mere eyedropper in an ocean of humanity."</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Sullivan</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Honoria was still waiting in his bedroom when Charles emerged from the bathroom, having changed into his night clothes and prepared himself for yet another night of restless sleep.</p><p>"I figured you'd be long-gone by now, being forced to endure that moment of weakness," he remarked, striding towards her as she stood next to his canopy bed. "Though I must admit to being thankful that you cannot fully comprehend all of—"</p><p>Her sudden embrace stopped him mid-sentence, halting him on the spot in spite of their stark difference in size. In response, Charles wrapped his arms around his sister, pulling her against him in an uncommon display of intimacy. Brother and sister embraced for what seemed to be several minutes, a true rarity in the Winchester household.</p><p>When he finally broke the hug and pulled back the duvet, Honoria could see once again the glimmer of tears on his face. Charles was no more than a vulnerable little boy in front of her, self-consciously sliding under the covers, and her heart ached for him.</p><p>The war had broken her brother, as evidenced by his newfound aversion to music, food, and socializing. She hated the very thought of the war for that reason, among others. And yet, the war had peeled back the many layers of her brother's renowned confidence and impassivity, exposing the astonishing vulnerability within.</p><p>"Will you have your friend v-visit?" Honoria managed to murmur, pulling her brother's covers up under his chin as he lie on his back. "It m-might be good to talk to s-someone who went through what you d-did."</p><p>"That is true," he said. "However, that letter was dated for two weeks ago, and surely much has changed in her life in that span of time. I imagine Major Houlihan has already settled down somewhere and can no longer afford to take time out to travel."</p><p>"Y-you could always call her or send her a t-telegram, to s-see if she might c-come. Did she share her contact inf-formation?"</p><p>"She did indeed, at the bottom of her letter, and yet…"</p><p>Charles said no more, provoking his sister to reply.</p><p>"So w-what's stopping you?" Honoria blurted.</p><p>"Be assured, dear Sister, that I will reply to her in due course," he replied, chuckling humorlessly. "However, at the moment, I am, as you can clearly see, a <i>particularly</i> poor companion and entertainer of guests, bound to break down in tears at any given moment."</p><p>"It's possible that m-maybe she is having t-trouble too—"</p><p>"Honoria," he interrupted, sighing heavily, "I must get my sleep. After all, <i>day's sweetest moments are at dawn</i>."</p><p>"I will bid you g-goodnight then, dear Brother. Please get your rest."</p><p>Uncharacteristically, Honoria leaned over the bed and planted a kiss on her brother's forehead, before she departed the room.</p><p>Charles was left alone in the darkness, his eyes still burning from his impromptu breakdown in front of his sister.</p><p>"So much for getting any sleep tonight," he muttered to himself in the darkness, well-aware of the new nasality of his voice, the congestion in his head and throat. And with that, he rolled onto his side with a sigh, mortified at all that he'd revealed to Honoria. That was the first time in remembered history that Honoria, or anyone for that matter, had seen him cry.</p><p>-------------------------</p><p>Many hours after Charles had departed the house the next morning, Honoria found herself strolling into his chambers. She prayed he'd left the letter from Major Houlihan on the end table, and instinctively moved towards the place where he'd last placed the object. There it was, in the same spot from last night! Giddiness filled her at the sight of her quarry, and yet a fair level of discomfort clouded her joy. Was it justified to touch her brother's possessions if doing so would indirectly benefit her brother?</p><p>She'd been unable to sleep the night before, thinking of Charles's profound sadness. It was not to say that Charles could not cry, but he certainly had never wept in front of her before, or in front of anyone in their immediate family, for that matter.</p><p>She would not allow herself to read the contents of her brother's private letter. However, he had informed her just before she'd departed his room that Major Houlihan's contact information had been supplied at the bottom of the letter, and thus her eyes would go there and there only.</p><p>She unfolded the document, her eyes moving straight to the bottom without hesitation.</p><p>Lo and behold, there was Major Houlihan's phone number, and the address and room number of her hotel in Tokyo. Honoria Winchester refolded the letter with a sigh of relief; she had all the information she needed.</p><p>-----------------------------------</p><p>"Whatever happened to the night janitor?" Charles muttered to the secretary of his department, shortly after he'd returned from yet another unfulfilling lunch at the hospital cafeteria. Certainly these support staff members all knew each other. It was now the beginning of his third week as the new Chief of Thoracic Surgery at Boston Mercy. He'd purposely remained at the hospital until nearly eleven in the evening on Saturday, Sunday, and now Monday night, his office door ajar all the while, and yet the only other soul in the department at that time was an unfamiliar female custodian who had been too shy to enter his open door to empty his trash can.</p><p>"You mean, Virginia?" the secretary answered, peering up at him with a look of concern in her eyes. "She wouldn't be here at this time of day."</p><p>"That's not what I meant," Charles corrected, stifling the urge to roll his eyes. "The older man. I believe his name was Bob Sullivan."</p><p>"Oh, right… him," she said, seeming to understand his question. "He… passed away last week."</p><p>After a gasp of shock, Charles's eyes widened in horror, red flooding into the skin of his face.</p><p>"When was someone going to tell me?!" he blurted, his teeth bared all the while, stunning the woman. She was quite taken aback at this random outburst, looking around at who may have overheard it.</p><p>"<i>Tell</i> you, Sir?" she murmured, her eyes wide and frightened.</p><p>"I cannot <i>fathom</i> it!" he now roared, becoming increasingly unhinged. "Have the members of this department sworn themselves to speak only of surgery and nothing else? My <i>God</i>, how long did that man clean our offices and vacuum our floors?!"</p><p>The woman was utterly baffled at the magnitude of this normally quiet, polite man's response to such a death, being as he'd only been working here for little more than two weeks now.</p><p>"I think, uh, twenty years or so," she replied, lowering her glasses to look up at him. "Um, is Virginia not performing her duties to your satisfaction? I can make sure to bring it up with—"</p><p>"No," he said, adamantly shaking his head. He had to calm himself down; clearly he was scaring this poor woman. "I am finding it hard to understand how his death wasn't even mentioned by anyone. Not a <i>word</i> about a man who worked here for two decades of his life."</p><p>"To be honest, Sir, most of us don't interact with him. He almost always worked the night shift, when none of us are here. I take it you must have met him."</p><p>Charles's rage was extinguished as he thought about her statement. Yes, he had met the man, and yet he had purposely avoided any further interaction with him these past couple of weeks. Perhaps if he'd taken the time to speak further with Bob Sullivan, he could have prevented, for example, an impending myocardial infarction, by recognizing the symptoms. He was a <i>doctor</i>, for God's sake; he could very well have saved this man.</p><p>"Was he sick?" Charles murmured.</p><p>"I—I'm not sure of the details, Sir," was the reply. "I do believe there may have been an obituary in Sunday's Boston Globe for him." She shook her head. "I'm really sorry; I mostly skimmed through it."</p><p>"Thank you for the information," he muttered, the rage gone out of him. He'd physically deflated in size now, his face drained of all redness. Before she could respond, he strode quickly back to his office and shut the door.</p><p>-----------------------</p><p>"I think we may still have it," Charles's mother commented, peering at her son quizzically at the odd request. Charles had arrived home at a suitable hour this Tuesday night, having spent a mere twelve hours at work rather than fifteen. In fact, he'd arrived shortly before dinner was to be served at precisely seven fifteen, and had neglected to greet his mother properly before blurting out the strange request for Sunday's copy of the Boston Globe.</p><p>Although she had replied in the affirmative, Charles's mother made no subsequent effort to fetch the newspaper. Instead, she scrutinized her son with narrowed eyes, gazing up at a man who barely resembled the man who'd flown out for a surgical conference in Tokyo some two years ago. Behind her in the expansive dining room, the servants brought out the first course, soup, in a large silver tureen, the china and silverware having already been set at each place at the table. Notably, Charles's place had not been set. Charles's father stood at the head of the table, silent, his face devoid of expression. It was not yet time for him to allow Charles to speak of his day until the salad was to arrive; he was a ventriloquist's dummy waiting for the curtain to rise, the fingers to slide into the head and move the mouth.</p><p>Charles and his mother were at a strange impasse. He stood silently in his work clothes, briefcase in hand, eyes locked expectantly on her as she self-consciously straightened out the folds in her dress, aware of his piercing gaze.</p><p>"The paper?" Charles stated eagerly, attempting a smile. His mouth was dry, heart thudding in his chest, as he waited for his mother to fulfill his request. Instead, she looked up at him, her eyes uncharacteristically tired.</p><p>"Perhaps we should wait until after dinn—"</p><p>"Nonsense," Charles interrupted, eyes darting around. "Where might I find it? Certainly wouldn't want you to have to wait an additional minute or two to eat."</p><p>Now his mother was frowning at him.</p><p>"I beg your pardon, Charles, but why such haste? I've seen neither hide nor hair of you these past two weeks, and suddenly you're here. And yet, you don't come to <i>talk</i>; you want me to find you yesterday's newspaper."</p><p>"How else am I supposed to learn all I've missed?" he countered, invigorated to be able to participate in some lively banter again. "It is in fact the best medium in which I can learn about the happenings of the week, namely, the <i>news</i>."</p><p>"Why Sunday's and not today's?"</p><p>"As per my <i>previous</i> statement," Charles began, having prepared his statement in advance, "Sunday's paper is more comprehensive than Tuesday's paper. I simply don't have the time to pore through the weekday papers, only to have them summarized quite succinctly in the Sunday edition."</p><p>Mrs. Winchester's eyes widened and then she smiled at Charles. Perhaps the young man with presence of mind and a keen, acerbic wit, a man who had left so long ago for a conference in Tokyo, had finally returned to her.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Cognac</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>So sorry, everyone!  I'd inadvertently made "drafts" of the chapters and had posted them multiple times,  with a draft of chapter 7 (Honoria) there without explanation!  You may have to read from chapter 7 to get the right flow of info!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Cognac</p>
<p>Charles sat in his library, thumbing through Sunday's Boston Globe to reach the obituary section. He ran a finger down the black print, smearing it slightly as he searched through the names. There, at the bottom of the list of obituaries due to the S surname of the deceased, was Robert Sullivan.</p>
<p>With a grimace, he read the short obituary. Bob had died at home. He had been predeceased by his wife Shirley five years before and his only child Larry less than a month ago. He had apparently been buried just yesterday with no public viewing or service. There was no information as to his manner of death.</p>
<p>With a scoff, Charles leaned back in the chair, irritated at the dearth of information on this man. It was not enough for him to be satisfied that there was nothing he could have done for Bob Sullivan.</p>
<p>Though he'd told his family he would endeavor to join them for dinner tonight, which would have been the first time in weeks, Charles reconsidered. Perhaps he should go to sleep now and head into work even earlier tomorrow to try to speak with the new night janitor Virginia about her predecessor.</p>
<p>He shut the newspaper, sighing with frustration. Finding out what had happened to Bob Sullivan filled his mind and restored his energy. For the first time in weeks, he'd not a thought of Korea or the postoperative reports—he had to solve the mystery of what had happened to the night janitor of Boston Mercy Hospital.</p>
<p>---------------</p>
<p>"Pardon me, Miss—?" Charles called out as he strode the endless hallways of Boston Mercy, having finally found his quarry on the fifth floor of the hospital attending to a restroom, her back to him as she wrung out her mop into a bucket. He'd managed to arrive at an exhausting 4:00 am this morning to track down Virginia during her shift, and had ensured he was wearing his embroidered white coat for maximum effect when at last he encountered the woman.</p>
<p>Virginia whirled around now, startled at being addressed in a normally empty ward. Her confusion and shock only grew as she saw his imposing figure and his white coat.</p>
<p>"Are you talking to <i>me</i>, Sir?" she asked, voice laced with anxiety. It was now that Charles could see that she was roughly his age and rather plain in appearance, wearing a shapeless monochromatic custodian jumpsuit, her light brown hair pulled back into a ponytail.</p>
<p>"I am," he answered carefully. "Are you Virginia?"</p>
<p>"Yes." She squinted now, attempting to read his coat from a distance. "May I help you, Dr.—?"</p>
<p>"Yes, in fact you may," he began, not bothering to tell her his name. "I am seeking information on one Bob Sullivan, the former night janitor at Boston Mercy."</p>
<p>"Well, he… he died."</p>
<p>"I am aware of that fact," Charles quickly replied in a dead-pan tone. "What I would like to know is the nature of his death. Was he, for example, suffering from any sort of illness or condition that predated his demise?"</p>
<p>She paused for a moment, taken aback by the strange question.</p>
<p>"I don't know."</p>
<p>Charles's shoulders slumped as he let out a sigh of exasperation.</p>
<p>"So am I to understand that you don't know how he died?"</p>
<p>"No, I know how he died," she replied. "I just don't know if he was sick. He and I only saw each other at the beginnings and ends of our shifts."</p>
<p>The surgeon rolled his eyes at her lack of elucidating the cause of death. Ugh, did he really have to spell it out for this woman? Why were the women working at Boston Mercy so damn… frustrating? First it was the nurse repeatedly ignoring his request for retraction, then the secretary saying nothing to anyone about the janitor, and finally, this woman and her curt replies.</p>
<p>"Let me be succinct," Charles began. "How. Did. Bob. Sullivan. Die?"</p>
<p>"He shot himself," Virginia answered, shaking her head and letting out a long sigh. "Please don't tell anyone—only a few of us know."</p>
<p>It was the worst possible thing she could have said. Charles's heart dropped straight into his feet and he felt faint. Thankfully he was only a step or two from the nearest wall, and he promptly thrust out an arm to steady himself against it.</p>
<p>"Are you alright, Sir?" the woman asked.</p>
<p>"I am just fine, 'ku," Charles replied, attempting to hide his anguish. "So I take your reply to mean that Mr. Sullivan was not in fact… murdered?"</p>
<p>Virginia took a step towards him, her eyes narrowed.</p>
<p>"Pardon my asking, Sir, but is there something you're not telling me?"</p>
<p>Now the woman was suspicious of him. He could not blame her for that. It didn't make any sense for the newly-hired Chief of Thoracic Surgery to seek out a night janitor at 4 am two floors down from his office questioning a recent suicide. Perhaps he should have considered how this would look before he'd decided to do it. It was that damn M.A.S.H.; it had made him much more impulsive and reactive; he was certain of it.</p>
<p>"I just… spoke with him a couple of weeks ago, is all," Charles said, lifting a hand to rub the back of his neck self-consciously, a shoulder leaning heavily against the wall.</p>
<p>"Were you friends?"</p>
<p>"No—I hardly knew the man. Yet from what I saw, he did not appear to be suffering from any ailment—"</p>
<p>"Oh, he <i>was</i> suffering, though," Virginia explained. "He was supposed to retire this year, but when his son died, he started taking on more hours than ever. Probably trying to take his mind off it."</p>
<p>Charles shut his eyes, recalling Bob Sullivan saying something quite similar.</p>
<p>"Anyway, I can't help but feel guilty," Virginia muttered. "I saw him at the beginning and end of my shifts most days of the week and I barely said anything to him. Sometimes I think if I'd just talked to him for a while, it could have helped." She looked downcast, shaking her head again. "He had <i>no one</i>."</p>
<p>At her final words, Virginia's eyes locked on Charles's and there was some kind of unspoken understanding between them. Or perhaps she was silently accusing him of the same sin. He took it to mean the latter. Charles's throat had dried out, perhaps from the vapors of the harsh cleaning agents in the custodian cart. He had to get back to his office. Her knowing gaze had stripped him bare of his white coat, his education, even his imposing stature, leveling him with her. They were both equally guilty of the death of a man, both to blame for a man's suicide.</p>
<p>Charles could sense every breath that entered and left his body, gooseflesh on his skin, as he waited for the custodian to mercifully break the eye contact. When she finally looked away, he was able to formulate the words to escape the tsunami of guilt gushing down the hallway towards him.</p>
<p>"Thank you for the information," he muttered. "I, uh, have to get back to my office, so I will be—"</p>
<p>"Are you sure you don't need any help? You're as white as a ghost."</p>
<p>"Just a momentary bout of postural hypotension; nothing to be overly concerned about," he replied, touching his clammy forehead. "Happens from time to time to someone of my stature in the early morning. I thank you again for answering my question. Good-bye."</p>
<p>And with that, Charles strode toward the nearest elevator, steadying himself with a constant hand against the wall.</p>
<p>-----------------</p>
<p>"Ch-charles," Honoria murmured, her face close to her brother's bedroom door, "are you in th-there?"</p>
<p>From his position under the covers of his bed, Charles rolled his eyes. Sighing, he placed the anesthesia book on his side table, and leaned up against the headboard, frowning at the door. Quickly he picked up the half-empty bottle of cognac on the table beside him and placed it on the floor.</p>
<p>"I'm rather busy at the moment," he replied after a moment or so.</p>
<p>"Would you care to j-join us for dinner?"</p>
<p>It was the same request she'd made the evening before. Ever since he'd found out about the fate of Bob Sullivan early Wednesday morning, Charles had thrown himself into his work these past two days even at the expense of his usual lunchtime trips to the hospital cafeteria, so that by the time his other colleagues left for the evening, he was finished with his own work. And then, rather than sit in his office those additional hours to think about how he'd failed Bob Sullivan, Charles forced himself to go home early. In that way, the fear of being overheard by his family would keep any emotions in check. He'd purloined a bottle of cognac from the wine cellar on Wednesday evening and had partaken of it multiple times these two evenings in his chambers, not to feel giddy or social, but to push his body ever closer to the realm of sleep.</p>
<p>Smacking his lips together, Charles could taste the sourness of the fermented cognac now on his breath, and prayed Honoria would simply leave him alone as she'd done after her failed request the previous evening. He shut his eyes, listening intently for the sound of her ever-quieter footfalls as she walked away from his room.</p>
<p>Instead, the damn woman opened his door!</p>
<p>Charles's eyes flew open and he sat up ramrod straight in bed, having already affixed a scowl to his face. As Honoria entered his room without permission, he locked eyes with her from his seated position, frowning with disgust.</p>
<p>"Am I to assume that my right to privacy in my own home has been made null and void?" he said with a sneer.</p>
<p>"You said you were b-busy," Honoria commented, looking increasingly concerned. "It's only seven pm. Why w-would you t-try to go to sleep now?"</p>
<p>"Perhaps because I am <i>tired</i>," he snapped. "Is that no longer a valid reason to sleep?"</p>
<p>"M-maybe you are tired because you aren't g-getting enough to eat," she remarked. Now she was moving further into his room, past the cedar chest at the end of his bed. For a brief moment, Charles's eyes widened; surely she would notice the cognac. He had no time to stow it under the bed.</p>
<p>Feeling a surge of panic, Charles abruptly threw the covers onto the floor and then slipped out of bed, clad in his striped pajamas, his feet bare.</p>
<p>"Honoria, I am truly astonished that you would be so discourteous as to enter my room and question my reasons for needing sleep," he said, straightening his pajamas as he stood beside the bed. He gestured toward the door, an impatient frown on his face. "I must ask you to leave. Please."</p>
<p>Because the blanket was now in a pile on top of the cognac bottle on the floor, Charles couldn't see where exactly the bottle sat and inadvertently nudged it with his foot. The faint sound of liquid sloshing as the cognac bottle tipped onto the Persian rug below reverberated in his ears, generating a rapid temperature increase in his face. He would be caught now, and his reasons for drinking the cognac would be dissected and discussed at length among the members of his family. The bottle had been full when he'd taken it from the wine cellar just yesterday evening, and now it was half-gone. Had he not learned his lesson in Korea with the amphetamine, to go and do something like this that strongly suggested the early stages of alcoholism? Perhaps he would be sent to some kind of rehabilitation facility as a result; perhaps to avoid the public shame, his parents would bring some Sidney Freedman type to the house to get into his head, to force him to address his issues and move past them as was expected.</p>
<p>Charles's ears burned; he could see Honoria peering at the ground at his feet, her hands planted on her hips. At the way she was looking at him right now, he felt like a naughty child with his hand caught in the cookie jar. He had to redirect her, had to keep her away from the evidence of his inability to handle his life lately. She'd seen him cry once, less than a week ago, and that was one time too many. He had to use his righteous anger to get her to leave, or at least to forget the sound of the bottle falling over.</p>
<p>"What was that noise?" Honoria snapped, looking suspicious. "Did something spill?" Her eyes searched the floor, searched the end table, filling Charles with more and more nervous heat. He could feel himself sweating now, rivulets of sweat running down his temples, moist heat emanating from his armpits.</p>
<p>"As you are well-aware, I have not had an appetite for dinner these past several weeks. Be assured that the moment I am feeling up to it once again, I will be more than happy to join everyone for a meal. However, at the moment, I require sleep more than I require food."</p>
<p>"You've been going to sleep earlier and earlier this past week," she said, fortunately following his abrupt change of subject. "That's not l-like you."</p>
<p>"How would you condescend to know my sleep schedule?" he countered, swallowing the panic that had not yet dissipated. Grimacing, he shoved his hands in the pockets of his pajama pants, taking an aggressive step towards his sister. "I do not recall you being in my bunk in Korea with me and my two fellow cellmates, being forced to work in 72-hour shifts, only to begin again in earnest after collecting a couple of hours of broken sleep. Do you not believe that such experiences can change the brother you once knew? It is likely that I will never be the same. You must accept that, Honoria."</p>
<p>"I think <i>you</i> are the one having t-trouble with acceptance, Charles," she retorted. "Have you t-told your f-friend to visit?"</p>
<p>"Course not," he drawled. "I have enough on my plate as it is… metaphorically speaking."</p>
<p>"You aren't eating; you aren't t-talking to anyone. We j-just want to h-help you, Charles. The only thing you've been excited about these p-past couple of weeks is that B-Boston Globe you asked mom for yesterday. What w-was so important about that, anyway?"</p>
<p>"Need I rationalize every facet of my existence?" Charles remarked sourly, pulling his hands out of his pockets and counting on his fingers for emphasis. "First, I had to read a letter under duress. Then, I had to explain my aversion to music, which nearly killed me. Today, I am expected to not only divulge my reasons for sleep, but also my motivation for reading a newspaper. What do I have to look forward to tomorrow, hmm? Expounding my reasons for breathing?"</p>
<p>Now Charles was audibly panting, looking surprisingly haggard as he finished his diatribe. His forehead shone with sweat, fists clenched at his sides, as he waited for his sister's reply.</p>
<p>Honoria had been thoroughly dressed down by her brother in a surprisingly animated tirade in spite of his self-reported tiredness, and she didn't know how to respond to what he'd implied. Of course, she didn't expect constant justifications for the things he did, but it was odd that she now felt more distant from her brother than she did when he was stationed in Korea.</p>
<p>With a sigh of disappointment, Honoria looked downcast and headed silently for the door. Charles let her leave without another word uttered. He had soundly won the argument, and yet he felt like the quintessential villain. What Charles didn't see as Honoria left was her look of stony determination as she headed for her room, and by association, the contact information for Margaret Houlihan that she'd written down in the event that it was needed. And now it was quite obvious that it was very much needed.</p>
<p>----------------------</p>
<p>"Clamp."</p>
<p>The surgery he'd managed to assign himself on this hot and humid Friday, to finish off his eye-opening third week, was a simple lobectomy on a prone patient, the patient's perfectly prepped skin glistening between the drapes. Even so, the bright lights of the O.R. seemed to be the sole cause of the throbbing headache that had only recently developed in Charles Winchester. Well, that or the fact that he hadn't had a full meal for going on three days, in combination with a generous quantity of cognac.</p>
<p>Thankfully Charles had been assigned another surgical nurse for this procedure, a rather rotund blonde who had performed far better than his last nurse, and yet he found himself just as impatient and frustrated with her efforts. He could feel himself sweating under the lights, his knees knocking against each other.</p>
<p>"Clamp!" Charles growled, and a clamp was placed in his gloved hand.</p>
<p>"Not the Kelly clamp, a <i>hemostat</i>!" Charles groaned.</p>
<p>The nurse passed him the correct instrument then, remaining silent beside him, not apologizing but not justifying her confusion. Thankfully Dr. Jackson was not observing this surgery; Dr. O'Rourke was the assisting surgeon, but he had taken a short restroom break and was currently not present in the operating suite.</p>
<p>Charles placed the clamp, effectively stopping the blood flow into the slender branch of bronchial artery as he sliced away the tuberculosis-infected tissue from the remainder of the organ with a barely perceptible yet extremely uncharacteristic shakiness in his hands. He was then made aware of a certain wooziness in his legs in combination with the light-headedness from Wednesday morning, as he placed the infected piece of lung in the waste container. And yet, the surgery would be over soon and he could not stop now. These were the moments he craved in his new job; the moments that reminded him of days that were simultaneously better and worse than his current situation at hand.</p>
<p>"Suction here," he muttered, a slight slur to his voice. The nurse did not immediately obey the order. Instead, she stepped closer to him, a look of concern in her eyes.</p>
<p>"Doctor, you're swaying," the nurse muttered to him, having noticed the alarming change in his posture.</p>
<p>"Nurse, you're <i>delaying</i>," he rhymed in return, sneering behind his mask. His vision doubled momentarily as he peered at his nurse, and then returned to normal again. Had he inadvertently crossed his eyes?</p>
<p>"Are you alright?"</p>
<p>"Most certainly," he replied again, the wooziness returning in a wave that lead to his prompt collapse onto the floor of the operating suite.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Hypoglycemia</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"Doctor Winchester," the voice demanded. He could feel hands on his chest, shaking him rather aggressively. "Doctor Winchester, are you alright?"</p><p>After a couple of seconds, Charles managed to open his eyes. He was lying on his back in the hallway just outside the operating suite, with Dr. Daniel Jackson kneeling over him, far too close for comfort. He could see that his white coat, mask, and surgical cap had been removed and his shirt halfway unbuttoned. He felt the chill of the cool hallway air on the sweat that drenched him, and shivered involuntarily.</p><p>"What happened in there?" Dr. Jackson asked. This was no muted gaze of a brown-nosing subordinate; this was a look of genuine concern.</p><p>"I must have… passed out," Charles muttered, his tongue feeling thick. "Ugh, my head…."</p><p>"Your heart is racing," Dan muttered. "And you are sweating through your clothes. I think we should get you down to the cardiac floor, make sure your ECG is normal. A head X-ray would be appropriate as well—Nurse Brown said you struck your head on the surgical table as you fell."</p><p>"Nonsense," Charles muttered, shifting his arms back so that he could lean on his elbows. "I do believe the reason for my syncope is a simple case of hypoglycemia."</p><p>"But you hit your head, Sir. You have quite the lump," Dan commented, pointing at it.</p><p>Leaning more heavily on his left elbow, Charles reached up and felt the rather prominent goose-egg on his forehead. <i>Ugh.</i></p><p>"I would think an icepack would be sufficient," Charles said with a grimace.</p><p>"I've already sent an orderly to fetch one for you. Now, tell me why you think hypoglycemia caused your syncope. Your blood sugar would have to be pretty low for that to happen."</p><p>"I am well-aware of the effects of hypoglycemia," Charles groaned, pulling himself into a seated position on the floor. "Once I've visited the hospital cafeteria today, I'll be right as rain; you'll see."</p><p>"I'd like to accompany you."</p><p>"That won't be necessary."</p><p>"I insist."</p><p>Dr. Jackson was not going to let this go. Apparently his colleague's days of being a people-pleasing pushover were over; the man was not going to take <i>no</i> for an answer.</p><p>-----------------</p><p>Charles sat at a little table in the far corner of the hospital cafeteria, Dr. Jackson directly across from him. He could not help but feel self-conscious regarding his current appearance; not only was he still nursing the lump on his head with the icepack, but his clothes were damp and surely reeked of sweat. His tie was askew and hadn't been centered properly either.</p><p>Charles's ECG had thankfully been normal as had his head X-ray. Even so, he'd felt a sharp pang of self-consciousness at having to stagger to his feet from the floor and button his shirt back up in the presence of a person who was largely a stranger to him. It was a small price to pay, however, for what could have been an utter nightmare; what if he'd collapsed on his patient, not only contaminating the field, but perhaps driving a scalpel into the patient's lung as he'd fallen? He'd been very lucky indeed, very lucky for an utter fool who didn't deserve such good fortune.</p><p>Charles knew that he'd been exceedingly irresponsible in thinking he could survive on not only a complete lack of food these past couple of days, but also on several nightcaps of cognac. His patient's life had been put seriously at risk with his asinine behavior, fainting from hypoglycemia like some green nurse at her first sight of blood. And yet, Dr. Jackson and Dr. O'Rourke had not dared to address his shortcomings. Colonel Potter most deservedly would have thrown out some choice words and perhaps dragged him by his ear to apologize not only to the patient, but to his coworkers. He deserved it; deserved the shame of it all.</p><p>And yet, he would not receive the reproach he so warranted, the catharsis a harsh reprimand would afford him, now that <i>he</i> was the equivalent of a C.O. in the Department of Thoracic Surgery. No one of any importance in his department would dare risk being fired to make him aware of his shortcomings. And yet, he <i>had</i> been corrected several times this past week, though by women with little power over him.</p><p>It was only two mornings ago that he'd heard the soul-crushing news about Bob Sullivan from a female janitor, then he'd been chastised by his little sister just last night. Not only did he feel responsible for what had happened to Bob Sullivan, but if any complications arose from the lobectomy today, it would be entirely his fault as well.</p><p>Perhaps Bob Sullivan's death and this impromptu loss of consciousness was a warning to him, a beacon to re-join the land of the living, both in terms of conversation and in the consumption of food. He'd spent far too much time these past couple of weeks wallowing in his own sorrow and suppressing his insecurities and regrets. Before Korea, Charles would have naively insisted that the Winchester bloodline precluded the chemical imbalances leading to suicidal ideations, but as he'd found out from his past addiction to amphetamines, his early male-pattern baldness, and his bout with the mumps, that there was nothing special about his bloodline that would save him from the damage of remaining isolated from his fellow man. Charles was, after all, a mere mortal, and he was now causing himself tangible injury on this path of self-destruction.</p><p>His colleague Dan had gotten food for the both of them; au gratin potatoes and baked chicken, green beans, a fruit cup, and even a brownie square. He'd also bought Charles a sugary drink. They sat in silence a comfortable distance away from the patients and hospital staff interspersed throughout the spacious room.</p><p>"Dr. Winchester, I've noticed you haven't been going to lunch the past couple of days," Dan commented. "You have certainly devoted yourself to your job, but I don't want you to overexert yourself—"</p><p>"That is a mistake I don't plan to repeat," Charles interrupted, a humorless chuckle following. "And most certainly the cause of my… episode today. I cannot apologize enough for my foolish behavior."</p><p>"No need to apologize, Sir. Is there… anything I can do for you?" Dan asked, still not convinced that everything was alright with Dr. Winchester. "I've noticed you've refrained from playing your phonograph during the day. Our intention when purchasing that for you is that you are free to listen to it any ti—"</p><p>"I've no desire to disturb my colleagues," Charles interjected, his heart again racing in his chest. He took a tentative bite of potato and rolled it around in his mouth, hoping that the ensuing rush of saccharides into his bloodstream would make his discomfort go away.</p><p>"—But you wouldn't be," Dan insisted, a serious expression on his face. "It is your right and privilege as Chief of Thoracic Surgery to keep yourself sane in any way you see fit."</p><p>Charles raised his eyebrows; perhaps this man had more of a backbone than he'd first presumed, implying to his face that he was in fact, <i>in</i>sane. He had to admit; there was some element of truth to it. No sane person in his position would avoid a home-cooked, gourmet dinner for weeks on end. No sane person in his position would arrive at work at 4 am to seek out a janitor he'd never spoken to, for the sole purpose of learning the cause of death of another janitor he'd only spoken to once. And no sane person in his position would refrain from eating anything for nearly almost three full days before performing surgery. What would Pierce say, knowing what he'd been up to these past three weeks? What would Colonel Potter say?</p><p>"Perhaps that was the wrong way to phrase it," Dan muttered, having begun to blush uncontrollably in response to Charles's thoughtful far-off gaze. He still hadn't touched his own food. "What I meant to say was—"</p><p>"No," Charles interrupted, locking eyes with his colleague, "you're perfectly in the right for saying it as you have. The… incident today in the O.R. was stupid and easily preventable. I have been willfully neglecting my own needs, to the detriment of a patient."</p><p>Now Dan was staring at him wide-eyed. Apparently in replying the way he had, Charles had made his colleague believe himself to be digging deeper into a hole with each comment. Rather than say more, Charles took another bite of potato and washed it down with the obnoxiously sugary beverage.</p><p>"I wasn't trying to imply that you did something wrong, Sir."</p><p>"Of course you were," Charles replied, rolling his eyes as he felt his body relax. "You don't have to sugar-coat your concerns. In fact, I'd prefer to be called Charles henceforth, by <i>all</i> the staff in the department. Perhaps it will make it easier for people to point out when I'm being particularly asinine."</p><p>With that, Charles let out a long breath of air and crossed his legs in a more relaxed posture. It had been refreshing to finally level with a coworker, just as he'd been quickly leveled with Pierce and Hunnicutt mere hours after he'd arrived at the M.A.S.H. 4077th. He felt the tension in his neck lessen, his pulse slow, his sweat slowly evaporate from his clothes. Perhaps this could be the beginning of a more genuine relationship with these people, something that could prevent a fate similar to Bob Sullivan's. From his lofty position as the Chief of Thoracic Surgery, he'd been automatically distanced from his colleagues and made untouchable as a result. Perhaps he simply needed to be called out from time to time on his bullshit. The diminutive Colonel Potter certainly let him have it on many different occasions; that was for certain. Even Margaret, Pierce, and Hunnicutt had put him in his place when he was clearly in the wrong. Without the occasional redirection from his peers, Charles had found himself in acute castigation withdrawal, with a sudden craving for some good old-fashioned rebukes to get him back on track. Little did he know, he'd have to be the sole provider at the moment.</p><p>Rather than laugh good-naturedly and relax in turn, Dr. Jackson stiffened at Charles's commentary. He still hadn't begun to eat his own food.</p><p>"Are you sure you wish to be called by your first name, Sir? You have certainly earned the right to be referred to with respect by your colleagues and I don't want you to feel pressured to request such a thing."</p><p>"Frankly, I am sick and tired of this… pedestal upon which I have been placed, undeservedly so," Charles replied with a sneer. "In fact, today I very literally fell down off of it onto the ground."</p><p>"The pedestal?"</p><p>Charles shut his eyes to hide the fact that he was now rolling his eyes. My God, had he found a man who completely and totally lacked all humor!? Or was Dr. Jackson simply terrified of losing his job, lest he say the wrong thing?</p><p>"Do you understand now why I go to lunch alone?" Charles commented, smirking broadly. "It seems I have completely unnerved you to the degree that you've lost your appetite as well. Who would have thought that hypoglycemia was contagious!"</p><p>"Right," Dr. Jackson muttered with a nervous titter, peering down at his tray, "so there was something else I wanted to ask you. It seems as if our department could benefit from hiring additional nursing staff for the O.R." Finally, he picked up his fork to eat. "Since you're willing to perform procedures, it would only benefit us to hire at least one or two more surgical nurses personally endorsed by you. Do you have anyone in particular you could see us possibly hiring?"</p><p>Apparently he hadn't hidden his impatience with Nurse Hays or Nurse Brown very well, although this could work out to his advantage, working with a nurse who would not have to learn to adapt to his surgical style. Instantly Margaret Houlihan and her letter came to mind. Charles couldn't help but think of her; Margaret was the best surgical nurse he'd ever had, hands down. And yet, he hadn't replied to her correspondence. For all he knew, for all he <i>assumed</i>, she'd already found a career elsewhere in the States.</p><p>"There is at least one nurse I can think of," Charles replied, leaning back in consideration, "but I'm not sure of her current status, or location, for that matter. I worked alongside her at the M.A.S.H. unit I was assigned to for the better part of two years. I am apt to believe that there is no better surgical nurse alive."</p><p>"What's her name?"</p><p>"Major Margaret Houlihan."</p><p>Immediately he regretted his decision to name Margaret, being as she was the very person who'd secured him this position through her 'Uncle Bob.' Charles scrutinized Dan closely, looking for that flicker of recognition.</p><p>"Well, bring her on board!" Daniel exclaimed, smiling now as he picked up some chicken with his fork. It was certainly a generic response, and one that did not reflect further knowledge of the woman. Clearly his colleague's relief that Charles had gracefully decided to segue to this subject had trumped any suspicion of the nurse he had named.</p><p>"Again, there is a <i>small</i> problem," Charles commented, holding up a finger of caution. "I literally don't know where in the world she is at present. After Korea, most of us headed to our respective hometowns. She notably did not. If she were to contact me again, I could then—"</p><p>"So she's contacted you?" Dan interrupted. "That's fantastic news. I'm sure you'd be glad to have a familiar nurse by your side during your procedures. I still feel badly about Nurse Hays that day."</p><p>"And yet, I topped any <i>perceived</i> failures of the nursing staff in rather spectacular fashion today; did I not?"</p><p>Dr. Jackson could only chuckle nervously. From the shameful, terrifying way he'd felt earlier, Charles now looked at present to be the confident, cool physician of the pair. Strangely enough, Charles felt a familiar comfort in hearing jokes cracked at his expense… even if <i>he</i> had to be the one making them.</p><p>When Charles returned to his office, not only was his headache and wooziness gone, but he had a renewed sense of purpose. He'd finally allowed himself to open up to a colleague. It was clear that in doing so, he'd terrified Dr. Jackson, but it was a start.</p><p>Again he considered Dr. Jackson's call for additional nursing staff. It was now that he regretted not contacting Margaret Houlihan. It was a shame that her letter was more than mere formalities exchanged from nurse to doctor; perhaps it was her fault that she had scared him away.</p><p>Surely it was for the better that Margaret was inaccessible when it mattered most. She was certainly a woman who was not afraid to express herself, and it would have only been a matter of time before she would blurt out how she'd gotten Charles the job.</p><p><i>Yes</i>, he mused, looking at the silent phonograph on his desk. <i>Perhaps it's for the best.</i></p><p>-------------------</p><p>Was that a knock on the door of his office? It could not be—it was 5 pm on a Saturday, a time in which he'd always been alone in not only the Department of Thoracic Surgery but on the entire seventh floor of Boston Mercy.</p><p>Charles looked up from the infamous postoperative report from yesterday. After he'd passed out, Dr. O'Rourke had returned and finished the procedure, followed by Nurse Brown closing. Thankfully, the patient had not yet experienced any complications from the attending surgeon banging his skull against the operating table, nor had he experienced any postoperative bleeding or pneumonia from the uncharacteristic shakiness of Charles's hands as the lung resection was completed.</p><p>What the report had failed to mention was how Charles had felt yesterday—the pounding headache, a weakness in his knees, sweat dripping from his clothes as his vision faded in and out. Somehow this report had nearly eliminated all embarrassment and shame on his part, rather outlining the steps of the surgery and the brief instance of syncope that mandated Dr. O'Rourke to complete the procedure.</p><p>There it was again, that knock at his door. Had the night janitor Virginia somehow figured out who he was and had come to question him further about his odd behavior the other day? Or was it something even more sinister? He swallowed loudly, wondering if he'd finally be revealed for what he truly was: a man wholly unworthy of this job, the man to blame for the death of five Chinese POWs but also for Bob Sullivan.</p><p>"Come in," he called out apprehensively, clasping his hands together on his desk, his shaking legs thankfully hidden behind the privacy panel.</p><p>The handle turned and the door opened to reveal a woman in a rather fetching civilian dress that was also appropriate for the workplace, her blonde hair pulled back off of her shoulders.</p><p>Instantly Charles rose to his feet behind his desk, his jaw dropping as he spoke.</p><p>"Margaret!"</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Arrival</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>CHAPTER 11 - Arrival</p><p>"Charles, is that really you?" Margaret replied, smiling at the man in front of her. On his coat tree nearby hung a white coat, plainly embroidered with his name. And yes, it had clearly stated Dr. Charles Emerson Winchester III, MD Chief of Thoracic Surgery on the nameplate on his door, but this man differed in several notable ways from the man she knew in Korea. Firstly, Charles's normally wild sandy-colored crown of hair had been cropped close to his head, a far more flattering haircut for his baldness. And yet, it made him look considerably older and graver. No longer did he wear the uniform of a major or a set of drab green army fatigues. He was now clad in civilian clothing consisting of deep gray trousers, a belt, a white long-sleeved button-up dress shirt and a plain charcoal-colored necktie. Not only that, but Charles had clearly lost at least twenty-five pounds as well; his face was thinner, the cheekbones and line of his jaw now well-defined, his dress shirt billowing freely over the slimmer waistline of his certainly custom-tailored pants. What hadn't changed was the brilliant light blue of his eyes, and the familiar look of confusion she'd often seen on his face.</p><p>"Perhaps a call to the optometrist is in order," Charles remarked with a little grin. Margaret had not changed in her appearance, but the different way she'd styled her hair, in combination with an increased use of makeup and the tasteful civilian dress, was certainly unfamiliar to him.</p><p>As he continued his little grin, Margaret entered his office with a broad toothy smile on her face, her eyes locked on his with surprising intensity as she shut the door behind her. Charles remained standing behind his desk, having since characteristically shoved his hands into his pockets.</p><p>"Well, aren't you going to give me a hug?" Margaret demanded, holding her arms open. It was a good ice breaker that had achieved the goal of widening Charles's little polite smile.</p><p>He strode out from behind the desk with a rare self-consciousness and was met by his former nurse, who promptly threw her arms around him and pulled him tightly against her. At first, he was taken aback by the aggressiveness of the act, but soon wrapped his arms around her as well. He bowed his head as they embraced, shutting his eyes while taking in the thankfully subtle aroma of the perfume she'd donned.</p><p>It was the first familiar face he'd seen since arriving in the States, and the scent of Margaret's perfume made him reminiscent of those days in the M.A.S.H. operating room, in the thick of a 60-hour round of surgery, taking those precious few moments to freshen up a bit between patients. Certainly he'd given Margaret a hard time regarding the strength of the perfume she'd worn in the O.R., but in doing so, it had been reasonably successful in masking the reek of sweat, alcohol, the charred odor of freshly cauterized wounds and sawed bone, the putrid stench of a gangrenous wound, and the other objectionable smells that surgery generated.</p><p>The embrace had lasted far longer than either participant had intended, but it had been strangely cathartic for both of them. When Margaret finally broke the hug, Charles could see a new glossiness to her eyes. Apparently, he wasn't the only Army officer in the States teetering on the verge of tears.</p><p>"It's so good to see you again, Charles," Margaret commented, still beaming at him, her eyes twinkling. "How have things been for you since returning Stateside?"</p><p>"Pardon me, Margaret, but how is it you are <i>here</i>, exactly?" Charles stated, his own smile having faded to a gaze of utter confusion.</p><p>"Well, I do know where to find you," she replied. "I went to your house first, but your sister sent me here."</p><p>"Ah," he began, still very baffled, "so you've met my sister Honoria."</p><p>"I have. Lovely woman. She's very fond of you."</p><p>"As she should be," Charles countered, refusing to acknowledge the comment further. "I take it your travels were largely uneventful—?"</p><p>"Thankfully, you'd be right," Margaret replied, a bit unnerved by Charles's sudden aloofness. "The furlough in Tokyo was the first time in my life I felt like I was on a real vacation. But even vacation gets old. I enjoy being busy. So I arrived just this morning to Boston, and well, here I am!"</p><p>"Wait—are you saying that <i>Boston</i> is the first place you've been since leaving Tokyo?" he asked, mouth ajar.</p><p>"I am! Wild, isn't it?"</p><p>And yet, Margaret could easily see, Charles wasn't pleased to know this information. In fact, he looked downright troubled, fidgeting about as he stood near his oversized desk.</p><p>"I'm, uh… finding it hard to understand what predicated your decision to not only come here but in fact, to arrive here first, being as I clearly neglected to reply to your letter."</p><p>For a moment, Margaret was silent, processing what her former colleague had just said. Charles Winchester was certainly a far graver, quieter man than Korea had let her believe. Or had he simply been forced to adapt to his surroundings?</p><p>"Eh, it's probably for the better that you didn't write back, because your reply would still be en route to Tokyo and would have missed me. I hadn't thought about how long that letter would take to get here, but I couldn't in good conscience call you in the middle of the night."</p><p>A wave of shame suddenly struck him, and he peered down at his polished leather shoes, plunging his hands into his trouser pockets yet again.</p><p>"<i>I</i> could have called, Margaret. I could have even sent a telegram." He shook his head. "I don't deserve the pleasure of your company."</p><p>"I'm sure you've been really busy," she said, no signs of anger or disappointment in her face. "You don't have to explain yourself to me."</p><p>Margaret was being uncharacteristically sweet and good-natured so far, in spite of his weak answers. He fidgeted awkwardly in front of her, his eyes meeting hers only briefly as they darted nervously around the room. Why was she not calling him out on his foolishness? It truly beggared belief.</p><p>It was then he understood everything. His eyes locked on hers once again, a wave of self-assurance bolstering his reply.</p><p>"Ah," he began, confidence returning. "I imagine you're headed to that little hamlet in Maine next; what was it called—Crabapple Cove? I suppose it makes sense that no major international airport would fly there; ergo, <i>Boston</i>."</p><p>Now Margaret was frowning. He'd triggered something in her. Instantly the tone of their reunion shifted from joviality to something much less friendly. The air of his office was clouded with a thick tension that the lack of music only enhanced.</p><p>"What are you saying?" she spat. "That you believe this to be just some stopover?"</p><p>"That is in fact my very suspicion," Charles said, a grim smile playing on his lips. Margaret crossed her arms protectively.</p><p>"Well, you'd be wrong."</p><p>He could not help but squint at her now—was she admitting that she <i>wasn't</i> headed to Crabapple Cove and Hawkeye Pierce by association? It was all very baffling to him.</p><p>"I saw that kiss you and Pierce shared on the compound that last day," Charles spat. "I would argue that it was not, in fact, a <i>goodbye</i>, but a <i>to be continued</i>. Was I wrong in assuming that?"</p><p>Now Margaret was shaking her head.</p><p>"It was something that had to be done. Nothing more, nothing less. I can't explain it."</p><p>"I see," he murmured, not entirely convinced by her reasoning. And yet, he wasn't in the mood to argue about such things right now, so he decided to move on to a more pressing subject Margaret had also yet to answer to his satisfaction. "So what <i>is</i> it that brings you to Boston, if not a subsequent jaunt to Maine?"</p><p>"<i>You</i>," she spat irritably. "You dunderhead!"</p><p>"Oddly enough, when you put it that way," he began, blinking rapidly and squinting with distaste, "I find it even more difficult to believe. <i>Dunderhead?</i>"</p><p>"Really, Charles?" she replied, moving her shoulders in exasperated fashion. "You can't think of one good reason why I'd come here!?"</p><p>"A job? The possibility that Pierce might catch wind of it and come here? I-I don't know, Margaret; I can't read your mind."</p><p>"Do you not think <i>you</i> are a good enough reason for me to visit?" She shook her head with frustration. "I remember in those first few months after you arrived at the 4077th, you made it very clear that you thought yourself better than me. Why the sudden about-face? I thought you came here to be a <i>surgeon</i>, not the first patient to undergo <i>ego</i>-removal surgery."</p><p>"I don't know what you are talking about," he muttered, decimated by her argument. It was true; in the past, he would have understood exactly why she was here. And now, here he was, self-consciously asking her over and over again to explain.</p><p>"Don't you think anyone in my shoes would be <i>thrilled</i> to visit <i>the</i> Charles Winchester, Chief of Thoracic Surgery at Boston Mercy?" Margaret said with an air of importance, gesturing for emphasis. "Is that not a good enough reason for you?"</p><p>There it was. The reason. Charles had been correct; Margaret was here, looking for some gratitude for what she'd done in securing him a job.</p><p>"Thank you for answering my question," he said, not smiling. "I suspected as much."</p><p>"Suspected <i>what</i>?"</p><p>The look in her eyes, the tension in her jaw, was approaching dangerous levels, and Charles pushed himself right into the precipice.</p><p>"I apologize, Margaret, but I've no cushions to place on the floor to properly prostrate myself to you."<br/></p>
<p>

-----------------</p><p>"WHAT?" she blurted. "What are you talking about?!"</p><p>Margaret Houlihan was fuming now, her face a definite shade of pink. Charles was thankful that the department was emptied of all surgeons and staff, and yet he was alone with Margaret, for her to tear him apart limb from limb as she was wont to do. Perhaps he should suggest they continue their conversation elsewhere—but where, exactly?</p><p>"Don't play coy with me, Margaret," Charles <i>tsk</i>ed. "You are here to check on your work, as it were. You did very well indeed securing me this job. I have a private office and a multitude of <i>yes men</i> following me around, hanging on my every word. I have the career I've always wanted—all thanks to you."</p><p>"Doesn't sound so bad to me," she said, crossing her arms. "So what's the problem?"</p><p>"I wanted to <i>earn</i> this position, not be delivered it in a neatly wrapped <i>Dear Uncle Bob</i> letter!"</p><p>Margaret shook her head, her arms tightly crossed as she approached him. Charles was forced to take a step back, banging his heel on the leg of his desk.</p><p>"What do you think I said in that telegram, hmm?" she remarked, standing on tiptoes to get in his face. "What magic words do you think I uttered to <i>cinch</i> this position for you?"</p><p>"Keep it <i>down</i>, Margaret!" Charles whispered harshly at her now, gesturing in a downward motion with his hands for emphasis. "I only just started here—are you trying to get me fired?!"</p><p>"What are you blathering about?!" Margaret responded, the volume of her voice continuing to rise. "All I wrote was a long-distance letter of recommendation!"</p><p>"Is that right?" he muttered, not convinced.</p><p>She looked positively murderous.</p><p>"Yes."</p><p>"Every word in your so-called <i>letter of recommendation</i> detracted from my hard-earned experience and merits, reducing me to an unwilling victim of cronyism and nothing more! And now you arrive at the scene of the crime as it were, full of self-importance, expecting me to <i>throw</i> myself at your feet and thank you for what you've done to me!"</p><p>"I don't have to take this from you!" she snarled, mouth agape, her eyes misty as she shook her head. "I'm leaving! Nice knowin' ya, buster!"</p><p>And with that, Margaret turned on her heel and opened the door to his office, slamming it behind her.</p><p>Charles was left standing in front of his desk, suddenly short of breath. So Margaret now knew the depth of his anger about the telegram she'd sent her Uncle Bob at the board of trustees. It was something he wanted her to know, and yet he felt very much in the wrong.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. Dinner Trip</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>CHAPTER 12</p><p>Charles leaned against his desk, inadvertently bumping his back on the phonograph positioned at the far corner. Perhaps he'd been too harsh. Margaret had arrived in his office like a breath of perfumed air, a big smile on her face as she'd hugged him with a familiarity that temporarily quashed the waves of self-doubt that burbled in his guts. And now, after she'd traveled almost seven thousand miles to Boston, he'd reproached her and driven her away.</p><p>Sighing, Charles snatched his briefcase from behind his desk and headed for the door of his office. Evidently his workday was ending right now.</p><p>The elevator was empty, as was the lobby of Boston Mercy. Now he was in the expansive tree-lined parking lot of the hospital, with a brisk fall breeze blowing through the mostly empty lot. He was certainly accurate when he spoke of the Winchester night vision; in the dimly lit lot, he was quickly able to spot Margaret's crown of light-colored hair as she strode swiftly through the parking lot, loudly grumbling as she evidently forgot which car was her rental.</p><p>"Margaret," Charles called out, increasing his speed to a jog. He could see Margaret turn around, her eyes seeming to glow in the night. Notably, her bright white teeth were not on display. She said nothing, turning away from him again, a growl of frustration escaping her lips.</p><p>"I'm sorry for what I said," the surgeon added, having closed the distance between them. "It was totally unacceptable."</p><p>"You can apologize all you want, but now I know how you really feel about me," Margaret muttered, her voice cracking with emotion. "You <i>loathe</i> me. What a fool I was to come here, thinking you'd be glad to see me!"</p><p>"I don't loathe you, Margaret," he began quietly, finally reaching her side. "I just wish you hadn't sent that telegram."</p><p>"I sent that telegram because I care about you! I hated to see you sad at losing out on the Massachusetts General position, and I wanted the people at Boston Mercy to know what a truly outstanding surgeon you are."</p><p>"By <i>people</i>, I presume you mean your Uncle Bob."</p><p>He could see even in this light, that Margaret was rolling her eyes.</p><p>"So I know a member of the board," she said, throwing up her arms. "Is that a crime, to <i>know</i> someone important? You know lots of important people, Charles—in fact, I recall your trying very hard to use your connections to get transferred out of the M.A.S.H. early on. Or don't you remember that?"</p><p>"No, I do," he said, feeling a wave of embarrassment, wiping the back of his neck with his hand. It was true that he'd called upon all of his family connections to get him out, a failed endeavor. And yet, for the past month or so, he'd held an old friend in contempt for successfully doing the very same for his sake.</p><p>"I sent my Uncle Bob a telegram and he probably passed it on to the search committee. Whoopidy doo. Big deal. Everything I said in that telegram I believed to be true."</p><p>It was then that Margaret spotted a white Buick Roadmaster parked a short distance from where they were standing.</p><p>"There's that damn rental," she said, pointing at the vehicle. "Well, I'd better go. Better get back to the job I forced them to give you." Bitterness and sarcasm filled her statement, and he was taken aback by the extent that he had wounded her pride.</p><p>"Margaret," Charles whined, following her across the parking lot like a lost puppy, "if you did not come here expecting my gratitude, then why? It was only yesterday that I mentioned you to my colleague, so I cannot imagine you were able to…."</p><p>Suddenly he realized he'd said too much. Immediately he halted himself mid-reply, a prickly heat entering his face at what he'd inadvertently divulged. Now Margaret was looking at him suspiciously.</p><p>"What do you mean, you <i>mentioned</i> me?"</p><p>"Can we speak elsewhere of this?" Charles replied quickly, voice low. He lifted his arm to indicate the hospital building behind them. "I can see my office from where we are standing. Perhaps we could talk about this inside your car. Or my car. It doesn't matter."</p><p>"Why don't we go get dinner somewhere?" Margaret suggested. "I'm famished. And the 14-hour time difference is really screwing with my head."</p><p>Margaret could not help but recall what Honoria had told her in that frantic phone call to her hotel in Tokyo just yesterday morning. She'd been surprised to be contacted from Boston in such a manner. Hearing the woman's obvious stutter was jarring enough, but what the woman had to tell her about Charles Emerson Winchester III was far more alarming. Since arriving in the States, Charles had never eaten breakfast at home, never brought a sack lunch with him, and had avoided eating dinner with his family each and every night. At first, it was because he had simply come home too late from work; later, when he'd adopted more conventional work hours, he'd still refrained from eating dinner. As further proof of his lack of appetite, he'd been steadily losing weight since arriving home. Not only that, but Honoria worriedly described her brother's current mental state; he was crying and inconsolable, full of an alarming combination of self-loathing and existential dread. He worked ridiculously long hours at Boston Mercy each and every day of the week and went to sleep at a disturbingly early hour each night. Not only that, but he had completely sworn off all music. In fact, Honoria said, clearly crying at this point, her brother didn't think he deserved to be <i>alive</i>.</p><p>Would Charles allow an old friend to convince him to eat dinner? Was his condition as serious as his sister Honoria had made it out to be? Honoria had sworn Margaret to silence—she was to act completely unaware of Charles's many issues Honoria had entrusted in her. Already it was serving to be a difficult task, seeing as Charles was so blatantly different than he'd been mere weeks ago when last she'd seen him in Korea.</p><p>"I really should be getting home," Charles muttered, shoving a hand in a pocket and kicking a loose piece of asphalt. "Early morning tomorrow."</p><p>"Tomorrow is <i>Sunday</i>," Margaret pointed out. "Are you telling me you <i>work</i> through the entire weekend?"</p><p>"That is what I'm telling you. I have important responsibilities. It's no different than the 4077th. Casualties were brought in with no regard to the day of the week."</p><p>"Don't give me that," Margaret huffed. "I know more about Boston Mercy than you think. Most of what your department deals with are scheduled surgeries, for <i>weekdays</i>. I didn't see another soul on your entire floor today, besides you."</p><p>"I am aware that we are not a M.A.S.H. unit. However, in regard to my absent colleagues, they do not have the additional responsibilities of the Chief of—"</p><p>"No time management," Margaret muttered under her breath, shaking her head ever so subtly.</p><p>Now Charles was frowning, having heard her utterance.</p><p>"What are you implying, Margaret?"</p><p>"I am not <i>implying</i> anything, Charles. If you can't get your work done during the week, then I am telling you that you have poor time management skills. To be honest, I wouldn't have guessed you to have that problem."</p><p>"I do <i>not</i> have poor time management skills; I am merely—"</p><p>"Go to dinner with me, Charles," Margaret blurted, grabbing his arm that was anchored to his pocket. "I just flew seven thousand miles to see you! It's literally the least you can do."</p><p>---------------------------------</p><p>"Beautiful," Margaret said, running her hand along the dashboard of Charles's 1952 Bentley Mark VI. "Did you buy this when you got back to the States?"</p><p>Charles rolled his eyes in the darkness.</p><p>"It's my parents' car," he said. "I've certainly not gone car shopping since returning home. In fact, aside from receiving a much-needed haircut, I spent the first week back in the States in a similar place to where I spent the end of the Korean War."</p><p>"Where's that?"</p><p>"The toilet."</p><p>"How awful. Are you better now?"</p><p>"I suspect I am," he replied back, embarrassed at having brought up such a subject. "Tonight is the first time I'll be going to a restaurant since I returned to Boston."</p><p>Only five minutes before, Charles and Margaret had been standing in the parking lot at an impasse after Margaret suggested getting dinner. In order to change the subject at hand and against his better judgment, Charles had acquiesced. Being as he was well-familiar with the area, he offered to drive her to a local eating establishment. They were fast approaching his restaurant of choice, Marliave, a French restaurant located less than a mile from his family estate on Beacon Hill. The fact that Margaret had dressed in what had to be her finest clothes certainly called for them to enjoy some fine dining. Besides, the small portions the restaurant served would perfectly compliment his persistent lack of appetite.</p><p>"What did you mean when you said you mentioned me?" Margaret finally blurted, unable to stand the suspense much longer. She had graciously provided him the requisite number of compliments at his willingness to take them to a restaurant in his luxury automobile, and now she wanted to know what he'd said about her. "So help me, if you said something about that damn <i>telegram</i>—"</p><p>"Course I wouldn't mention that," he interrupted. He could see her staring at him intently from the corner of his eye. "I said absolutely nothing negative about you."</p><p>"Then what <i>did</i> you say about me? Apparently it mattered enough for you to mention it."</p><p>Charles sighed. This was dangerous territory. Depending on how he worded things, this could result in Margaret being hired to work in the department of thoracic surgery, or it could result in a massive argument about how she was the sole reason for all his problems as of late.</p><p>He'd mentioned her name just yesterday to Dr. Jackson, and hadn't exactly regretted the decision upon returning home. Having a highly competent nurse work alongside him in the O.R. would be a welcome change. Not only that, but having a friend to confide in about their shared experiences would not necessarily be a bad thing. And yet, just thinking about her telegram to the chair of the board made him unbelievably angry. He could never be certain if he'd been hired for his own merits or simply because of the influence of the Uncle Bob-Margaret axis.</p><p>There wasn't much time to think about what he should do. Within a couple of minutes, they would be arriving at Marliave, a restaurant he recalled to be a quiet, intimate sort of place; it was certainly not the type of venue to have a spirited conversation. Perhaps he could suggest a delay. It was worth a try.</p><p>"Is it possible we could revisit this discussion later, when I—"</p><p>"No," she said, now crossing her arms, looking at him sternly. "I want to know what you said about me."</p><p>"Very little, in fact," he replied, glancing at her for a second. He could feel her eyes boring into the side of his head. "What about <i>you</i>?" he added, glancing over at her briefly. "You never did answer my question as to why you are even in Boston."</p><p>"Yes I did," she countered. "Repeatedly. I came here to see you. That's the reason. Take it or leave it. You're just trying to stall in answering my question."</p><p>Several more seconds passed before Charles was able to formulate the words in his mouth. Why could he not have a simple light chat with Margaret, in which they could both catch up briefly and on highly shallow terms, then depart with mutual civility? This sort of conversation was far too heavy for what should have been a simple reunion of friends.</p><p>"My colleague, Dr. Jackson, suggested our department hire additional nursing staff."</p><p>"And?"</p><p>He gulped; he'd no idea how she'd respond to this. In fact, based on her response, his day would either be ruined or… ruined. There was no coming back from this; whatever he said would intensify their conversation in one direction or the other, both for which he was ill-prepared.</p><p>"I mentioned you," he muttered, barely audible.</p><p>She froze for an uncomfortably long moment, having turned in the car seat to look at him. He was nearly at the restaurant. Could he possibly stall just a bit more?</p><p>"In what way?" Margaret blurted, as he put on his turn signal to park along the road. "As someone to <i>avoid</i>?"</p><p>"What way do you think, Margaret?" he responded, his increasing annoyance with the questioning giving him the courage to speak. "You know damn well you're the finest nurse I know."</p><p>As he centered himself in the parking space in front of Marliave, he could see a big toothy smile spreading across Margaret's face. He could feel gooseflesh on his arms and down his spine, even though it was a comfortable temperature in the car.</p><p>"Thank you, Charles," she said, grinning broadly. She reached out and touched his leg, and he swallowed. Feeling his breaths quickening, he shifted the car into park, glancing out at the familiar façade of the French restaurant just outside his door.</p><p>"We're here."</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I recommend downloading/streaming some Edith Piaf songs to set the tone for the next chapter: "Padam Padam" in particular and "Sou le ciel de Paris." I love your feedback and kudos!  Also, does anyone know how to add proper page breaks?  I hate using dashes to separate sections!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0013"><h2>13. Marliave</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I recommend you download/stream some Edith Piaf as background music for this "scene!"</p><p>I do love feedback--I can't tell if anyone is still reading this otherwise...</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Charles and Margaret were seated by the full-length windows on the second floor of the restaurant, able to overlook Province St. in downtown Boston. Charles had been the quintessential gentleman, opening the car door and restaurant door for Margaret and pulling out her chair for her to sit.</p><p>Now that Charles and Margaret were seated across from each other, Margaret was able to get a really good look at her former colleague.</p><p>Charles seemed far older now, his face somber, dark rings around his eyes. He'd certainly lost an unhealthy amount of weight very fast—even his skin looked sickly pale. His closely cropped hair made him look even more serious; she found herself missing the often humorously wild hair he sported in Korea.</p><p>In spite of his serious, forlorn appearance, Charles was certainly in his element here; he blended in seamlessly with the beautiful glass sculptures and gold candelabras that surrounded them, the posh automobiles, the expensive food, and the similarly dressed patrons of the restaurant. She was finally able to observe Charles Winchester in his natural habitat—that of wealth and privilege. It was Margaret who now felt wholly out of place, for once. She looked at the menu then, written entirely in French.</p><p>"Hmm," she said, grinning at Charles as she looked up from the menu. "I think you're going to have to order for me."</p><p>"Ah, right, the menu's in French," he said, giving her a tight, closed-mouth smile. "<i>Je suis désolé</i>. Any type of French food you prefer? I'd be glad to order it for you, Margaret."</p><p>"I'm not really well-versed in this kind of food," she admitted. "All I know about it, I learned from you."</p><p>"That is actually far more depressing than it sounds," Charles commented, flashing her a brief face of pity. "Don't you worry, Margaret; I will order you something truly exquisite."</p><p>----------------------------</p><p>After Charles had ordered food for them both, it became apparent to him that a song had begun playing. He could hear the mournful strings and trumpet of the melancholy waltz "Padam Padam" by Edith Piaf, and he sighed irritably.</p><p>Immediately Margaret was made aware of Charles's acute discomfort, and frowned with concern. Had Honoria truly been telling the truth in saying Charles no longer enjoyed music?</p><p>"What's wrong?" she ventured to ask. "Just a second ago you were smiling. Is it the song?"</p><p>"Very observant, Margaret," he said, managing a grin yet again, though his eyes still looked haunted. "I hadn't considered they'd be playing French <i>pop tunes</i> here."</p><p>He didn't wish to go into his general abhorrence of all music at the moment. It was bad enough that what should have been a light, lively exchange had become one thickly interwoven with his rantings about Margaret's fateful telegram, and of course the revelation of his mentioning her name as a possibility for his department's nursing staff.</p><p>"I think it's very catchy," Margaret replied, shrugging, the minor chords pulsing rhythmically in the background, striking his ears like ice-cold rain. "Do you know what she's singing about?"</p><p>"I've no idea," Charles quickly replied with an unconvincing shrug, fidgeting uncomfortably in his chair as he found himself staring at the table, reminiscing. His former French Red Cross lover Martine LeClerc had in fact told him about this very song in reference to her deceased Robert. In this French tune, Edith Piaf sung of how the beating rhythm of music, like a wooden heart, reminded her of her past. It was oddly fitting now, in regards to Charles's new interpretation of music as a painful reminder of Korea. He winced, the dissonance of the trumpets' staccato notes eliciting gooseflesh under the sleeves of his dress shirt.</p><p>Margaret could see Charles's growing discomfort at speaking of the music playing in the background. Honoria had informed her that Charles had gone off all music, and yet Charles had reflexively replied that it was because it was <i>pop</i> music that he was unhappy. She would not press him further on the subject of music at the moment, seeing his increasing uneasiness as the song continued.</p><p>"Do you come to this restaurant often?" Margaret then asked, mercifully changing the subject.</p><p>"I did, quite a lot, before Korea," he managed to reply. "Marliave is only little more than a mile from Massachusetts General. I used to come here for lunch once or twice a week when I'd find the time."</p><p>"Where do you get lunch now?"</p><p>His answer to this question would tell her more about the seriousness of his situation. Charles had always had a healthy appetite in Korea in spite of the mess tent food. He was always more than happy receiving packages of gourmet food from home and savored every bite. In fact, during the course of the war, Charles Winchester had noticeably <i>gained</i> weight. If Honoria had been accurate in saying that Charles had not only gone off of music but of food as well, then he was suffering more than she could have ever imagined.</p><p>"Hospital cafeteria," he drawled matter-of-factly. "Not exactly the Marliave, but the mess tent has greatly lowered my standards for edibility."</p><p>Margaret felt herself sighing with relief as her body melted into the comfortable chair. So he was eating. Thank God things weren't as dire as Honoria had made them out to be. Honoria would be happy to know her brother had been getting sustenance <i>somewhere</i>.</p><p>"Do you also get breakfast at the hospital?"</p><p>He fidgeted uncomfortably in his seat.</p><p>"I don't eat breakfast, just coffee," he replied.</p><p>"Ah," she replied a bit too enthusiastically, leaning forward, resting her chin on her hands as she peered across the table at him. "What about dinner?"</p><p>"This conversation has steered into the blatantly <i>maternal</i>, Margaret. I'd rather you tell me of <i>yourself</i>. I should like to hear about your furlough in that pearl of the Orient Tokyo."</p><p>Margaret proceeded to tell him about her days at the spa, her attendance at various surgical seminars and her visiting of several M.A.S.H. patients now being treated at Tokyo General. Charles sat attentively, quietly listening to her speak, watching her emote as she described her stay, her eyes twinkling with excitement. Margaret had certainly enjoyed herself, had enjoyed freely spending her hard-earned money on the best Wagyu steak and sushi she could eat, but had found her solo stay surprisingly lonely after a while. What most excited Margaret about her time in Tokyo was, shockingly enough, a surgical conference.</p><p>"I actually learned some new developments in the medical field from a surgical conference just last week!" she explained, eyes sparkling with excitement. "There are now better-designed laryngoscope blades that allow better airway access, and enzymes that can now be injected through a catheter to clear out blood clots in the pleural space during closed thoracotomy drainage. They've even made their own version of the vascular clamp that we paid to have made at the 4077th. Really, though, I think ours is even better than theirs!"</p><p>"Sounds like you've been studying up on thoracic surgery, if I heard you correctly," Charles commented, swallowing. Her passion for the subject was palpable, as his own enthusiasm for medical science was sliding down a hillside, replaced with ever-increasing exhaustion and self-doubt.</p><p>"I actually stuck around an extra week to attend that last conference," she admitted. "It was definitely worth the wait. They also talked a good deal about the new heart-lung machine developed in Philadelphia just recently. Can you believe all the advances in medicine we've missed in our little corner of Korea!?"</p><p>"I missed far less than one might imagine," he muttered, flashing a smug grin. "My sister Honoria sent me every new issue of the Annals of Surgery, the Journal of the American Medical Association, and the British Medical Journal. Unlike Pierce and Hunnicutt, I did not use Korea as an excuse to forgo my continued education."</p><p>"Why didn't you share them with anyone?" Margaret commented, frowning. "I would have liked to read them."</p><p>"With Pierce's penchant for nude volleyball, Hunnicutt's preoccupation with his family, Colonel Potter's love affair with Zane Grey, and your fondness for romance novels and poetry, I figured I was alone in my interests. Not to mention my <i>reward</i> for sharing the Boston Globe with the camp."</p><p>"That <i>reward</i> was all your fault," Margaret laughed. "Though I'm disappointed that I didn't get a chance to really get a gander at you in that slinky little kimono."</p><p>"And you're all the better for it," he said, rubbing the back of his neck self-consciously. "Needless to stay, it was one item I decided <i>against</i> gifting to my sister Honoria."</p><p>"Was that all they left you to wear?"</p><p>He peered at Margaret in confusion. What sort of an inquiry was that? Was she in fact asking if he'd been <i>naked</i> under the kimono? Now his face was heating up, most likely turning as bright red as the kimono itself. How could he possibly answer such a blatantly… coquettish statement?</p><p>"Again, a valid reason to <i>not</i> gift the item to my sister," he muttered, face ever-reddening.</p><p>Suddenly Margaret burst out laughing, promptly raising the cloth napkin to her mouth to stifle a loud guffaw.</p><p>"Oh, what I would have paid to see that!" she chortled, flashing a big toothy smile. "Nurse Kellye said even though that kimono was ridiculously short, she somehow got you to bend over in it! Now, how did she get you to do that? Drop a section of newspaper at your feet?"</p><p>He thought back to that day, to Nurse Kellye's asking him if he knew any Japanese. So apparently there'd been a reason behind what she'd done. He never <i>did</i> find out exactly what she said to him in Japanese.</p><p>"No," he said, carefully. "She bowed while speaking to me in Japanese, and then I bowed."</p><p>"Ah, so she appealed to your worldly sensibilities then! What did she say to you?"</p><p>Now his face was surely red, and he shrugged, a smile finally emerging on his face.</p><p>"I've no idea."</p><p>Margaret's smile only grew at his admission and the fact that he was now smiling as well. It was interesting that Charles felt both offended by her laugher and yet intrigued as to why she'd chosen to delve into this particular subject.</p><p>Soon they were simply smiling at each other from across the table, not a word passing between them, the strains of Edith Piaf's "Sous le ciel de Paris" swelling in the background. As the strange tension in the air between them reached its peak, Charles's facial expression alternated between apprehension, bemusement, and hope, never settling on one emotion for more than a second or two at a time.</p><p>"Anyway, I miss being a nurse," Margaret commented, shaking her head as she steered the subject away from such a suggestive subject. "In fact, I found myself dreaming of surgery when I managed to fall asleep. Can you believe, thoughts of incoming wounded are actually able to <i>help</i> me sleep!?"</p><p>Just then, the waiter arrived, bringing an expensive bottle of red wine and a small plate of hors d'oeuvres, namely, escargot. He smiled, glad for the distraction.</p><p>The next question, if he indeed wanted Margaret to apply to work at Boston Mercy, should have addressed her current work status. However, he was not yet ready to consider all the complications that would come from having Margaret present on a more permanent basis in his life. Surely she would order him to stop working long hours, would force him to play his phonograph, would fluster him with reminders of his own embarrassing actions, and would compel him to spend his well-earned money on expensive dinners like this.</p><p>No, he was not ready.</p><p>"Tell me," Charles began, grinning sheepishly as he lifted a snail from the plate, "have you ever eaten a <i>mollusk</i>?"</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0014"><h2>14. Inquisition</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>With the last of the escargot and cassoulet finished and with various superficial subjects covered rather thoroughly, Charles glanced at his wristwatch with a gasp and then abruptly stood up, looming awkwardly above the table. Margaret was still finishing off her glass of wine and peered up at him questioningly.</p>
<p>"What's the rush?" Margaret stated, flashing him a look of annoyance. "You only just finished your last bite. Don't you want to sit and talk for a while?"</p>
<p>"It is now 7:30 pm," he said, "and I must arise early tomorrow, as I have already informed you. It appears you are finished with your meal as well."</p>
<p>"This wine alone is twenty-five dollars a bottle. No way am I wasting a drop of this stuff!"</p>
<p>"Why does it matter, when I'm the one paying?" Charles retorted. With that, he lifted his arm briefly, flagging down a waiter.</p>
<p>"Waiter, the bill, s'il vous plaît," he called out, impatience in his tone. Margaret frowned, still holding her glass of wine.</p>
<p>"I didn't intend on having you pay for this, Charles," she said, still seated. "I was the one to suggest we eat, and so <i>I</i> should—"</p>
<p>"What, is it your next goal to emasculate me? <i>I</i> am paying for this."</p>
<p>Immediately upon receiving the bill from the waiter, he sent it back with his Diners Club card without even looking at the cost.</p>
<p>"I don't understand why you're so… angry all of a sudden," Margaret commented. "Were we not having a nice time?"</p>
<p>"Yes, until I realized I was squandering time normally reserved for sleep."</p>
<p>Glaring up at him now, Margaret threw back the last swig of wine and stood up, clearly annoyed with his reply.</p>
<p>"Are you telling me that <i>sleep</i> is more important than a couple of hours of catching up with an old friend?!"</p>
<p>He could only widen his eyes briefly in the affirmative. The waiter had quickly returned with his card, and he snatched it off of the man and shoved it into his wallet.</p>
<p>"Surely you have more important things to do now," he muttered, "than waste your time with me."</p>
<p>"What are you saying?" she blurted, confused by his outburst. "Are you saying you're a waste of time?"</p>
<p>"I don't see how you can argue otherwise," he said, shoving his hands in his pockets. "Your time and your enthusiasm are best spent with… happy people."</p>
<p>He'd admitted too much. He directed his gaze to the floor, leaving it there to stew.</p>
<p>"Why aren't you happy?" Margaret said, making him jerk involuntarily as she touched his side. "You're home from Korea, you have a great job, you have your health, and you got to see an old friend. I don't understand why in the world <i>you</i> of all people would be unhappy…"</p>
<p>"You wouldn't, would you," he snapped, "being as you are the source of much of it."</p>
<p>Grimacing, he turned away from Margaret and promptly headed down the stairs to his vehicle, not even waiting for her to catch up with him.</p>
<p>-------------------------</p>
<p>Charles walked far ahead of Margaret, head down, hands in his pockets, neglecting to perform all the chivalrous duties he had when they'd arrived at the restaurant. In fact, upon opening her car door, Margaret found him already inside turning the ignition, his fingers drumming impatiently against the steering wheel.</p>
<p>"Were you just going to leave me here?!" Margaret growled. "I don't know what the hell is wrong with you, but I'm not taking the blame for it!"</p>
<p>"Course not," he scoffed, rolling his eyes. "Now, would you get in the car, please? It's late."</p>
<p>"Maybe I should take a cab," Margaret said with an ugly frown, crossing her arms. "I wouldn't <i>dream</i> of making you any unhappier."</p>
<p>"Just get in the car, please," Charles replied tiredly. "I don't have time to belabor the point with you."</p>
<p>With a scoff, Margaret complied with his request, realizing how futile searching for a taxi in an unfamiliar city would be.</p>
<p>"I can't think for the life of me what it is I've done to you!" Margaret muttered, keeping her arms crossed as she sat down in the vehicle. "Mind explaining yourself?"</p>
<p>"I have to <i>sleep</i>, Margaret," he whined. "It is imperative that I—"</p>
<p>"Don't be such a big baby!" she cut in. "If you want to accuse me of things, then be a man and explain yourself!"</p>
<p>He did not reply to her barb, gritting his teeth and focusing on his breathing. Margaret was not finished ranting.</p>
<p>"Since when is sleep so crucial for you?" Margaret snarled, gesturing wildly. "I don't recall you moping around the compound after the 3-day rounds of surgery, snapping at everyone! What, are you trying to catch up on all the sleep you lost in Korea in a single goddamn weekend?!"</p>
<p>He shifted the car into reverse, exiting the parking space, keeping his expression as unaffected as possible in spite of his racing heart. Unlike his new coworkers, Margaret would not permit him to say and do things without consequence.</p>
<p>"I fail to see your point," he heard himself mutter.</p>
<p>"The point is: now that you're in a cushiony office with your so-called <i>yes men</i>, you canonize yourself as the patron saint of drudgery! I mean, you made it to the top, Charles! What do you have left to prove?"</p>
<p>"Everything!" he roared, abruptly slamming on the brake and causing him and Margaret to jolt forward in the car.</p>
<p>Now that the car was stopped, Margaret was peering over at him wide-eyed and shocked at his outburst. Honoria had not mentioned her brother's sudden bouts of barely controllable rage. Silently she prayed they'd make it alive back to her rental car in the hospital parking lot.</p>
<p>"I am <i>done</i> discussing this with you, Margaret!" Charles yelled, baring his teeth, his breath now coming in pants. "Do you hear me? I've had enough of this… inquisition of yours!"</p>
<p>Normally Margaret had the upper hand in commanding the men and women of the 4077th around, but in this case, she was stunned to silence.</p>
<p>--------------------------------</p>
<p>"Where are you staying tonight?" Charles muttered quietly, as he'd pulled up beside Margaret's rental car. It had been the first words that had been spoken since his outburst just outside the French restaurant. After his outburst of rage in the car, he found himself feeling increasingly guilty for what he'd done. Had he not already had to apologize for blasting Margaret with his overzealous accusations?</p>
<p>"Not that it's any of your business, but the Stanley Hotel in Chelsea," she replied matter-of-factly.</p>
<p>"Oh God," he said, visibly cringing as he clutched his forehead. "Never, <i>ever</i> stay in Chelsea. Why on earth did you pick such a <i>dump</i>?"</p>
<p>"The price. Why else?"</p>
<p>"I can't in good conscience let you stay there," Charles groaned.</p>
<p>"But you <i>can</i> in good conscience berate me for wanting to spend time with you," she snapped back. She reached over and opened her car door. "I'm a big girl, Charles; I can take care of myself."</p>
<p>"Margaret, I expressly forbid you to go there."</p>
<p>Rather than reply right away, Margaret stepped out of the car, digging in her purse for the keys to the Buick.</p>
<p>"I don't have to answer to you," she said. "Hell, <i>sleep</i> is more important to you than ever seeing me again. I am the source of your unhappiness; remember when you told me that only minutes ago?"</p>
<p>"I was wrong to say those things," Charles said, climbing out of his side of the car and standing on the other side of the hood of the Bentley. "You can't go to Chelsea, Margaret. Your rental will be vandalized; I guarantee it. In fact, your rental being vandalized, would be the <i>least</i> bad thing that would happen if you choose to stay there. Your… looking as you do right now makes you a prime target for an attack."</p>
<p>"How do I look, <i>pray tell</i>, that makes me such a target?"</p>
<p>His eyes scanned her from head to where his view of her ended at the hood of his car.</p>
<p>"Your <i>dress</i>, Margaret. The way it clings to your body. Not only that, but the lightness of your hair—it practically glows in the dark. Even the scent of you. It will drive them mad."</p>
<p>Margaret's eyes widened for a moment. Was Charles in fact hitting on her, or just pointing out the facts of her appearance? His expression of concern made the former far less likely.</p>
<p>"So it's <i>my</i> fault that I'm a target."</p>
<p>He dropped his head to his chest in complete frustration. When next he addressed her, his face was stricken.</p>
<p>"I'm not saying that; I'm simply telling you the elements that make you a—"</p>
<p>"Why do you care, anyway?" she said, shrugging. "You've insulted me in every way a person possibly can. I don't think I could feel any less welcome than I do right now."</p>
<p>Margaret's words were not yelled in anger, and yet the way she'd said them cut him to the quick. Charles winced, sighing as he bowed his head yet again.</p>
<p>"For the second time tonight, I must beg your forgiveness, Margaret," he said, clasping his hands together. "I assure you; I am merely concerned for your safety when I insist—"</p>
<p>"It's almost 8 pm," Margaret interrupted, wholly unconvinced. She'd pulled out the key for her rental car. "Where am I going to find another hotel at this hour?"</p>
<p>"Come to Beacon Hill," he said, beginning to stride around the front of the car towards Margaret.</p>
<p>"Are you crazy? I can't afford a hotel there!"</p>
<p>"My <i>home</i>, Margaret."</p>
<p>"Are you serious?" she asked, wide-eyed with surprise. "You gotta be kidding me!"</p>
<p>"My request is borne out of concern for your safety. We've plenty of bedrooms and bathrooms, far more than people, in fact. Did my sister not show you around when you'd arrived?"</p>
<p>"No, she didn't," Margaret responded, sighing audibly now. "Anyway, thanks but no thanks. I think I'll take my chances."</p>
<p>Now he was directly beside her.</p>
<p>"Please," he said, reaching out and taking her icy hand with an uncharacteristically sweaty hand. "I don't want to read about you in the crime section of tomorrow's Boston Globe. You'll be far safer with me… on Beacon Hill," he added quickly.</p>
<p>"That is, if you don't kill me for whatever I've done to make you so unhappy, not to mention making you lose sleep," she snapped back, lifting an eyebrow. "Seems I have far more to fear with <i>you</i> than with the men in Chelsea."</p>
<p>"Nonsense, Margaret," he replied, his sheepish look returning. "I am nothing more than a… big baby, as it were."</p>
<p>--------------------------</p>
<p>In spite of his invitation to Margaret to stay at his home, Charles could tell that Margaret was still seething over his treating her so poorly, her newfound animosity toward him readily apparent even in the short moments before she'd gotten into her vehicle to follow him to 30 Briarcliff Lane on Beacon Hill and in the brief moments of silence as they first entered his family home. Even so, the emotion Charles felt strongest right now was relief; at watching her rented Buick Roadmaster pull behind his Bentley in front of the stately red brick row house, he was glad that Margaret had opted to follow him home as he'd requested and not simply turn off in some other direction to never be seen again.</p>
<p>Charles sat in his bedroom now, having nudged a doorstop under his bedroom door to prevent it from being opened. The gold-plated doorknob and skeleton key slot on his bedroom door certainly looked appealing, but had been completely nonfunctional for years, rendering his door unable to be properly locked. It was much like his own impressive exterior and credentials hiding something fundamentally broken. His dysfunctional lock wasn't such an issue where his family was concerned, but now it was imperative that he have refuge from Margaret's aggressive inquisitions.</p>
<p>Their butler had directed Margaret to the room directly next to his. It was a guest room, adorned in a rather unappealing shade of green, that had only rarely been utilized in the last several decades. Many of the second-floor bedrooms were only ever entered by the maids for the occasional dusting and refreshment of the bedclothes. His brother Timmy's room sat at the end of the hall, a time capsule reflecting the exact moment his brother had died some thirty years back, a room that no one dared enter without good reason and a key. Even now, Charles would occasionally experience a strange tingling sensation walking past that door, a door that, unlike his own bedroom door, was able to be locked. Clad in his pajamas and staring steadily at his own door from his canopy bed, Charles felt a surge of jealousy for his deceased younger brother. Not only did Timmy's bedroom door lock, but at least he didn't have to live with the knowledge that he was inherently unworthy of not only his inborn wealth and status and prestigious position, but even the company of an old friend.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0015"><h2>15. Proposition</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>CHAPTER 15 - Proposition</strong>
</p><p>He'd been able to leave the house in utter silence at the usual time on Sunday morning without disturbing Margaret or causing some kind of melodrama to erupt in the Winchester household. Turning the ignition of the Bentley with a smile, Charles took great pleasure in knowing he'd escaped consequence for now and could focus on his work for the day without distraction.</p><p>And yet, when he'd set his briefcase down in his office and peered at the stack of postoperative reports he had yet to finish reading, Charles was overcome with indecision. What was Margaret going to do today? Was she going to spend the day telling Honoria of his strange behavior, his random outbursts of anger? Would his sister, in turn, tell Margaret about how he'd cried his eyes out in front of her?</p><p>He'd been so wrong yesterday in how he'd treated Margaret. They'd been so chummy in Korea, working side by side in the O.R., sharing gourmet food and a love of (very different) music, ganging up against Pierce and Hunnicutt on the odd occasion, and comforting each other when life became difficult.</p><p>And yet, Margaret's ultimate act of friendship, to help Charles achieve his career goals, had, in fact, been used as a weapon against her. Perhaps she would leave Boston today and travel to Crabapple Cove, where she could justly condemn him to Pierce. Perhaps she and Pierce would resume whatever had been suggested by their long goodbye kiss. And when Charles received their wedding invitation, he would know that he had truly deserved this outcome.</p><p>Charles took the postoperative report from Friday off of the stack of papers on his phonograph, the report detailing the surgery he'd botched with his stupidity. All his undeserved good fortune of late—his return to Boston, the restoration of his health, his prestigious position—required an equal and opposite reaction, as per the laws of physics. He closed his eyes, picturing Margaret leaving Beacon Hill now, a smile on her face as she anticipated seeing the <em>very </em>friendly face of Pierce.</p><p>And to think, all of his recent misfortunes had begun concurrently with the advent of his digestive issues. Since then, he had chalked up a rather large list of iniquities: firstly, he was certain that he was in fact responsible for the death of those five Chinese musicians, as well as that of the night janitor Bob Sullivan. The poor janitor had been blatantly crying out for help in confronting him in his office that first evening, and he'd selfishly avoided him every night henceforth, compelling the poor man to commit suicide. Those six deaths weighed heavily on him.</p><p>And yet, he mused, rather than learn from what he'd done, he'd begun purposely avoiding sustenance, going so far as to perform surgery in a dangerously weak state and putting another life at risk! And just yesterday, after making his first real progress with Dr. Jackson, he'd horribly mistreated a friend who'd traveled thousands of miles to see him. The scales were due to tip the other way soon; perhaps he himself should initiate that process.</p><p>He considered what he should do as he stared at the meaningless symbols on the paper. Should he resign from this position? Should he demote himself to a mere surgeon in the department? Should he quit practicing medicine? Should he reenlist and allow the Army to decide his fate? Or should he perhaps apply for a job far away from Boston, a place with no Uncle Bob, a place where the Winchester surname was inconsequential?</p><p>The lattermost option seemed the best, at first thought. Leaving his hometown, his family, after spending nearly two whole years away from them, seemed an unthinkable choice and yet, would it really be so difficult to physically distance himself, being as he'd already emotionally distanced himself?</p><p>After nearly three hours with not one postoperative report reviewed and paralyzed by a vicious combination of guilt and indecisiveness, a wave of exhaustion overcame Charles. Frowning at the phonograph and the stack of papers on top of it, he folded his arms on the desk on top of the embarrassing postoperative report, lowering his face into the junction of his arms.</p>
<hr/><p>At exactly twelve noon, Charles Winchester's office door was thrown open without warning. Margaret Houlihan stood in the doorway in far plainer attire than yesterday, her face dead serious, arms crossed. Now that she'd been left alone all morning with Charles's sister Honoria, she no longer had to pretend she didn't know what he'd been up to these past few weeks.</p><p>Immediately Charles awoke from where he'd fallen asleep on his desk and sprang to his feet, his eyes wide with shock.</p><p>"Margaret!" he exclaimed, his astonishment overpowering all other complicated feelings that had arisen at the sudden interruption. He felt a wetness on his bottom lip and reflexively wiped what certainly seemed to be a glob of drool away.</p><p>"We need to talk."</p><p>Her solemn request elicited a wave of shame that cascaded over him, making gooseflesh shoot straight down his spine. And to think, it was only two days ago that he'd craved a good scolding for his foolish behavior, having resorted to insulting himself for a sense of satisfaction. Incongruously enough, what he'd craved then was now coming true, and yet he couldn't help but feel a deep sense of dread. And yet, he had to <em>face the music</em>, as it were.</p>
<hr/><p>Charles and Margaret sat in her rental car in the parking lot of the hospital. She sat on the driver's side of the long bench seat, her keys on the seat between them. Charles sat a short distance beside her, his hands laced together in his lap, head bowed. It was now Margaret's turn to be shocked; not only had Charles wordlessly complied with her order, simply nodding as she gestured to the hallway and then promptly leaving his office, but he'd kept his head down and mouth shut like a shameful little boy all the way to her vehicle.</p><p>Margaret turned completely to look at Charles, who was silent, his head bowed, waiting expectantly for her to speak.</p><p>"I spoke to your sister today," Margaret began, her voice stern yet somehow also less pointed than it had been just last night.</p><p>He only raised his eyes briefly in acknowledgement, a soft grunt escaping his lips.</p><p>"She tells me you aren't talking to your family. You aren't eating with them, and you've completely stopped listening to music. She said the maid found a half-empty bottle of cognac in your room only a couple of days ago. She's really worried about you."</p><p>As Margaret spoke, she could see Charles wincing as if burned by each newly revealed fact. And yet, once it was clear that she was done speaking, he had nothing to say for himself. He wondered if Honoria had told Margaret of his moment of weakness, sobbing like a baby in front of his sister. At least Margaret had the good sense not to mention it, if she had indeed been told.</p><p>"I'm worried about you as well," Margaret added. "This doesn't sound like you at all, Charles." She reached out and touched his leg, only to feel him shudder at the contact. Now she could see him shutting his eyes. "Not even music?"</p><p>"It's my burden to bear," he muttered lowly.</p><p>"Talk to me," Margaret insisted. "What's going on with you?"</p><p>"I am considering leaving Boston," he muttered. "For good."</p><p>"Now, why the hell would you want to do that?" Margaret exclaimed. "You just got your dream job! What, are you unhappy here?"</p><p>"I simply need to start over," he muttered, his head remaining bowed.</p><p>His reply was met with silence. What was Margaret going to do? Was she going to explode at him, screaming obscenities about his impetuous decision? Was she going to throw herself into the fray and accuse him of doing this out of revenge?</p><p>He waited for her reply until impatience overcame him and he could wait no more. Wincing, he turned his head to look at Margaret.</p><p>Margaret was looking over at him with tears in her eyes, her face a stomach-churning mix of fear and sympathy.</p><p>"Is there anything I can do to help?" she asked, as their eyes locked.</p><p>Charles seemed to be very near tears as well, and he promptly looked down at his feet.</p><p>"There's nothing you can do now," he replied, his voice soft but laced with bitterness, continuing to stare downwards. "What's done is done."</p><p>Out of the corner of his eye, he could see her crossing her arms now.</p><p>"You're gonna have to be more specific than that. I have no idea what you mean."</p><p>He raised his head again, staring through the dashboard window off into the distance as he explained. "I realize now that I have spent my life unwittingly led by the whims of powerful people, people deciding my fate based on factors beyond my control. I have to take back control of my life, Margaret—if, in fact, I've ever had control of it in the first place."</p><p>"Are you referring to that letter again?" she replied, her voice not quite as soft as it had been. He could sense that Margaret was starting to get riled up again and it would not be long before she was pummeling him with her words. Charles sighed, waiting for the verbal blows to come.</p><p>"It's not just the letter," he muttered, closing his eyes briefly. "I gather that by virtue of my surname, I have most likely been granted opportunities here in Boston that I would not have earned on merit alone."</p><p>"Are you <em>kidding</em> me?" Margaret blurted. "You are the best surgeon I've ever known. The opportunity to watch your hands work their magic will always be a highlight of my career."</p><p>"I appreciate that, Margaret, but… how many surgeons could you possibly know?"</p><p>Now she was frowning.</p><p>"I've been a nurse longer than you've been a surgeon, buddy! And as a military nurse, I saw far more surgeons than I would have as a civilian!"</p><p>He visibly sank at her anger.</p><p>"Would the <em>best </em>surgeon have nearly killed a patient due to his own stupidity a mere two days ago?"</p><p>Now her features softened.</p><p>"Surgery is complicated and unpredictable; <em>you</em> more than anyone, should realize—"</p><p>"It had nothing to do with the surgery," Charles said, locking eyes with her. "I had an episode of acute hypoglycemia and fainted in the O.R."</p><p>Now she was shaking her head, looking at him with concern.</p><p>"I fail to see how that is your fau—"</p><p>"What if I told you that I hadn't eaten much of anything for the better part of three days, and had an excess of cognac every night? It was very much my fault, and I should have been fired for such idiocy."</p><p>"You're being far too hard on yourself," she said. She picked up her keys from the seat. "Let's go somewhere to eat. And don't you dare say no—you literally just told me how stupid it was for you not to."</p>
<hr/><p>"Are we not going to stop for lunch?" Charles murmured, watching as Margaret drove away from the restaurant-lined shops of the city, instead turning on to a road that paralleled the Charles River. He peered nervously out the window as he took in the view of the river he'd swum across a decade ago now, the night after he'd graduated Harvard Medical School. At the moment, it was very unlike that chilly spring day, being unusually hot for early fall, the sun high in a perfectly cloudless blue sky.</p><p>It was then that Margaret pulled the Roadmaster along the shoulder of the road and put the vehicle in park. Charles glanced over at her, clearly confused.</p><p>"You forgot the food," he muttered, having glanced briefly into the back seat to find it empty. He looked out the window at the river, now a stone's throw away. "Or are you implying that we are going to <em>fish</em> for our lunch, Margaret?"</p><p>"Of course not, Silly," she said, getting out of the car. He hesitated leaving the vehicle, turning in his seat as he watched Margaret proceed to the trunk of the car. Shortly after opening the trunk, she produced a picnic basket. In her other hand, she held a blanket.</p><p>Charles sank with exasperation in his seat and then decided to address the innate discomfort of this particular style of eating.</p><p>"Margaret," Charles said with a groan, clambering out of the car and leaning heavily on the door, "I am hardly in the state of dress to sit on the ground to eat."</p><p>"Aw, live a little!" she exclaimed, beaming. "It's Sunday and it's just beautiful out!" With that, she locked the trunk and walked toward a strip of lush green grass by a little wooden dock jutting into the river. In the distance, Charles could see various singles and couples picnicking, birdwatching, or simply staring at the calm waters that flowed past the esplanade. Briefly he shut his eyes, reminiscing of those simpler times, a young man full of hope and excitement as he'd leapt into this very river in his cap and gown ten years ago.</p><p>"Here's a good spot!" Margaret yelled from a short distance away, spreading the blanket over a flat area of grass, the spot shaded by a large oak tree nearby. She knelt down on the blanket, pulling out the food.</p><p>"That's not your picnic basket," Charles grumbled, standing above her now with his hands in his pockets.</p><p>"Good eye!" she replied quickly. "Your sister suggested it. She said you have close personal experience with this river, and hell, it's <em>named</em> after you, so why not eat here?"</p><p>"Ha," he muttered flatly. "I should have figured Honoria had a hand in this. I don't understand what it is you are still doing here. You should be several hours into your trip to Maine, and Pierce by association, to receive a more… appropriate welcome."</p><p>"For the <em>second</em> time, seeing Pierce right now isn't part of my plan. Please, sit down."</p><p>Charles sighed audibly and lowered himself to his knees, positioning himself awkwardly on the picnic blanket.</p><p>"Then what <em>is</em> your plan?" he asked, now seated cross-legged on the blanket. "Do you want a job at Boston Mercy? You <em>do</em> happen to have connections there."</p><p>Margaret pulled out some individually wrapped sandwiches and a pitcher of lemonade and placed them on a tray from beneath the picnic basket. She shook her head with disappointment as she replied to him.</p><p>"I just don't know what to think of you anymore, Charles. Are you saying that<em> judgmentally</em> or as some kind of encouragement? And I have to correct you—my Uncle Bob is my <em>one</em> big cheese connection to Boston Mercy."</p><p>"You have <em>me," </em>he replied, "…at least for now."</p><p>She gawked at him then, blinking more rapidly than usual. What was he suggesting? Charles was not a smooth-talking flirt like Pierce and the seriousness of his delivery certainly annihilated any potential playfulness in the statement. Thankfully, Charles was able to pick up on her confusion.</p><p>"What I mean to say, Margaret, is that you are certainly welcome to apply for a nursing position in the Department of Thoracic Surgery… the sooner, the better." As he spoke, he nervously loosened his light blue tie. "I'd be more than happy to recommend you to my colleagues. If it is your goal to work at Boston Mercy, I will do my best to ensure that you are hired."</p><p>"Are you offering to do this because you think you owe it to me?"</p><p>"Not hardly," he replied with a humorless chuckle. "You'd be an asset to the department. You are an exceptional nurse and any hospital that hires you is lucky to have you."</p><p>"And then right after I get hired, you're gonna quit, is that right?" she shot back, recalling his earlier desire to leave Boston to start over.</p><p>"To be completely frank, I don't know what I'm going to do," Charles muttered, sighing. "All I know is that I can't continue along this current trajectory."</p>
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<a name="section0016"><h2>16. Picnic at the Charles River</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"Take off your tie! Stay a while!" Margaret said with a laugh, as Charles pulled the stifling piece of fabric from around his neck, placing it on the picnic blanket beside him. He sat cross-legged on the picnic blanket opposite Margaret, the Charles River burbling next to them, as he halfheartedly nibbled at his chicken sandwich, his wine glass containing one of the rarer Winchester vintages somehow remaining upright next to him on the grass. It was now he understood why Margaret had worn a simple pair of trousers, dark-colored blouse and flat shoes. His custom-tailored shirt was surely coming untucked from his pants and he could see a smudge of dirt on the toe of his shiny leather shoes. Not only that, but if the wine glass were to spill, he'd not only be out of such a vintage, but his pants would be rendered blood red.</p><p>It was an unseasonably warm day, a beautiful Sunday that, in his days at Massachusetts General, would have been spent along this very esplanade accompanied by a medical tome and his phonograph and records. Those were simpler times, times in which his self-confidence had been unshakable, success had been effortless to achieve, and his thoughts generally alternated between an appreciation for the inner workings of the human form and an appreciation for the delicately interwoven constituents of classical music. Both of these subjects were comprised of a multitude of seemingly unrelated components, that by themselves, were rather unremarkable. And yet, when assembled in the proper proportions by the proper creator, each was capable of producing something far more incredible than the sum of its parts.</p><p>"What was your sister referring to when she said you had personal experience with the Charles River?" Margaret asked, stirring him from his thoughts.</p><p>"I never told you that story?" Charles remarked, chuckling to himself. "In short, I swam that river in cap and gown the night after graduation from Harvard Medical."</p><p>"<em>You</em>? Were you drunk or something?"</p><p>An amused little grin spread across his face, a reminder of the Charles she knew.</p><p>"In short, I was blotto."</p><hr/><p>"Lie down—the blanket's plenty big enough," Margaret suggested, patting the picnic blanket, having herself flipped onto her back after finishing her lunch. "It's a perfect day to just relax."</p><p>Charles had since rolled up the sleeves of his shirt to elbow level and could feel sweat erupting from every pore. It was far too hot to wear such clothing, and he frowned down at the dirt that had now collected on the heels of his shoes.</p><p>"I really should be getting back, Margaret," he said, remaining seated. He glanced at his wristwatch. It was now nearly two in the afternoon.</p><p>"You really did an about-face, you know that?" she remarked.</p><p>"Care to divulge the nature of this supposed about-face?" he asked, unamused. "I cannot read your mind."</p><p>"When you first came to the 4077th, you refused to wake up early and you hated working weekends. Now you're awake at the crack of dawn on Saturday and Sunday for work."</p><p>"I would argue that two years of being expected to work at unfavorable times has altered my proclivities. I find that when I work weekends now, my week can then be spent—"</p><p>"Sleeping on your desk?" she cut in, smiling knowingly.</p><p>"That was an anomaly you witnessed today, Margaret," he corrected, holding up a finger. "The very first time I've done that since beginning work here."</p><p>"Which was, what, a couple of weeks ago? You're not making a good argument for working weekends."</p><p>"What do you propose I do instead then, hmm?" he shot back, his voice laced with irritation. "I can't very well do what I used to do."</p><p>Now Margaret was intrigued. Charles didn't often divulge information about his personal life while in Korea. Certainly she knew his taste in music and food but not necessarily his pastimes in his day-to-day life. Would he allow himself to be more vulnerable to her in revealing the facets of his past existence?</p><p>"And what was that?" she replied, cocking an eyebrow.</p><p>He wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of his arm.</p><p>"I suppose it is a bit similar to what we are doing here now, save for lying on a blanket. Weather-permitting, I'd go to the Boston Common or to the esplanade," he continued, his eyes focusing in the distance. "Sometimes I'd bring my phonograph, sometimes a medical text—it depended on the day and my willingness to lug them around. I'd find a bench somewhere and make camp, as it were, spending most of the day in that very spot, taking in Mozart, Tchaikovsky, Gray…."</p><p>Margaret blinked.</p><p>"Gray?"</p><p>"As in, <em>Gray's Anatomy</em>. You know, some light reading."</p><p>"Well, I don't have any medical books with me today, but I <em>did</em> bring along a phonograph—it's in the trunk."</p><p>"I assure you; it is best kept where it is at present," Charles replied, suddenly looking anxious. "Voluntarily listening to Doris Day is a recognizable cause of heartburn, especially when supine."</p><p>"Ha!" Margaret laughed, recalling what Honoria had said about Charles's newfound dislike of all music. She decided to press further. "Well, what about Tchaikovsky? Or Chopin?"</p><p>"Surely you wouldn't bring such music along, so no use conjecturing—"</p><p>"In fact, I <em>did</em> bring them with me. Chopin's Etude No. 10 and Tchaikovsky's Piano Concerto No. 1 in B Minor—"</p><p>"B <em>Flat</em> Minor, Margaret," he interrupted.</p><p>Now Margaret rolled her eyes good-naturedly.</p><p>"Major, minor, flat, no flat, what's the difference?"</p><p>It was the perfect thing to say to entice a response from Charles Winchester. He took a deep breath before replying.</p><p>"The B flat minor consists of five flats as opposed to the two sharps of the B minor key. In fact, there is a <em>major</em> difference between the two minors."</p><p>"Awww, just let it <em>be</em>, Major!" Margaret said, adding her own quip.</p><p>Charles cringed for a moment at his companion's pun and then chuckled, realizing the innate amusement in their exchange. Never had he considered having a conversation about key signatures with Major Margaret Houlihan along the Charles River.</p><p>"Just say the word, Charles, and I can go get it."</p><p>"The word is <em>no</em>."</p><p>"I know your sister said you were off music, but maybe you just weren't listening to the right song in the right place with the right person. Please," she said, her eyes locked on his now. "Music is so important to you—you shouldn't let it go. You loved those albums."</p><p>Now she watched his eyes widen and jaw drop.</p><p>"Did you in fact <em>purchase</em> the very—"</p><p>"You gave me a couple of your own when we left Korea, remember? So I already know they have the Charles Winchester stamp of approval. Want me to go get them?"</p><p>"There's already far too much to carry here—the blanket, the picnic basket, our food waste. You needn't burden yourself with lugging a heavy phonograph back and forth to the car."</p><p>Of course, it was characteristic of Charles to shun physical labor, even in the assistance of a woman. Of course, she <em>was</em> Major Margaret Houlihan, a woman who would normally refuse such chivalry, so perhaps just as she knew him, he knew her as well.</p><p>"Maybe I'd like you to explain the key to me so I don't say it wrong next time. What better way than to play it and you can point out all the flats?"</p><p>"It doesn't work like that," he remarked, shaking his head. "Today is pleasant enough without music."</p><p>Margaret raised her eyebrows.</p><p>"It <em>is</em>?"</p><p>"Yes, but unfortunately, all good things must come to an end," he said, finishing off his glass of wine. "I should really be getting back to the office now."</p><p>"Please, can we just listen to one song? And then if you want to go back, we can go back."</p><p>Now he was gritting his teeth.</p><p>"Apparently I do not have the option to refuse," he answered, grimacing now.</p><p>"Why would you refuse, Charles? You always loved classical music, and these are your very records. Please, give it a try—if not for yourself, for me."</p><hr/><p>As the horns descended into the smooth theme of Tchaikovsky's Piano Concerto No. 1 in B Flat Minor, Charles shut his eyes and bowed his head, gooseflesh on his sweaty skin. He sat with his hands planted in the grass behind him, his legs stretched out straight in front of him, Margaret sitting beside him on the blanket.</p><p>There were the five Chinese musicians in his mind's eye, smiling and waving at him, the mortar striking their jeep and flinging them into the air with each struck piano chord. The accordion and violins exploded into charred burning pieces as the strings swelled around each trio of piano chords, the flute burying itself in the ground like a javelin. Those five men should have been taken to the POW camp immediately, before the ramping up of violence in that last day before the armistice was to take effect. He knew damn well that temporary cease-fires in Korea were marked by increased violence before and after the actual cease-fire. And yet, knowing that the war was quickly coming to a close, he had not insisted they leave as soon as possible. So rather than possibly reuniting with their families, those five men had spent their final weeks of life learning a song under the baton of an impatient conductor in the uniform of the enemy.</p><p>Margaret could see Charles gritting his teeth now, eyes tightly shut, looking pained. She had recalled him telling the group that music would always be a reminder of his experience in Korea, but which part exactly he hadn't divulged. Were thoughts of the casualties currently racing through his mind? Or was it the sound of the mortars striking the camp so very close in those final hours of the war? Or was it perhaps the less-than-cushy conditions at the 4077th? She could not be certain.</p><p>"What are you thinking about?" Margaret murmured slightly louder than a whisper.</p><p>"I am thinking that it was none other than my meddlesome sister Honoria who put you up to this," he began, now lifting his head and opening his eyes, "and for that, I should shun her in <em>perpetuity</em>."</p><p>With that, he reached over and deftly lifted the stylus off of the record, effectively silencing Tchaikovsky.</p><p>"Now, just wait a minute, Charles," Margaret said, pulling the device away from him, "I recall you mentioning music now being a reminder of Korea—a reminder of <em>what</em>, exactly?"</p><p>"Must you antagonize me in public, of all places?" Charles shot back, clearly perturbed, the volume of his voice steadily rising. He stood up now, looming over Margaret, his face ever-reddening. "Surely Honoria has already filled you in on the relevant information that she gleaned from forcing me to speak of this... this agony!"</p><p>"Fine. I'm not going to make you talk about it," Margaret said in a calm nurse's voice. "You don't ever have to talk about it again if you don't want to."</p><p>"Kindly inform Honoria of the same. I am forever a closed book to her," he replied, crossing his arms and looking resolute. "The nerve of my <em>sister</em>—" he spat, ire in his voice as he began pacing now, "—in not only <em>forcing</em> me to read the letter you'd written, but then using her… feminine wiles to draw out my pain until I broke down right in front of her! And yet, her mission wasn't complete; now <em>you </em>know all about it!"</p><p>"Why don't you sit down?" Margaret suggested quietly as she tapped on the blanket, appalled by how unbridled Charles was behaving right now, speaking loudly of his deepest emotions in a park, of all places! Would he be able to calm down, or was this day now ruined?</p><p>"And what if I choose not to?"</p><p>"It's a free country," she replied, shrugging, leaning back over toward the phonograph. "You're free to stand up; <em>I'm</em> free to listen to mus—"</p><p>Now he strode back over to her, his eyes venomous, interrupting her mid-sentence.</p><p>"I swear, if you so much as touch that stylus, I will drop kick that damn phonograph into the river!" he raged. "It is no less than a <em>torture device</em>, Margaret!"</p><p>Rather than try again in attempting to get him to sit, Margaret rose to her feet. Now she stood across from him on the blanket, taking in the sight of a man she barely recognized. Charles Winchester stood in his civilian's clothing, his arms crossed and his hollowed-out face mottled red. She could hear his loud breaths as he held his mouth slightly ajar, and his eyes, though under angry eyebrows, were the very essence of misery.</p><p>The silent phonograph sat on the blanket between them. Margaret looked down at it, then used her foot to shove it out of the way, taking a step toward Charles.</p><p>"I was there, Charles," Margaret murmured, looking up into his eyes now, her calm voice the culmination of her extensive nurses' training. "I saw those musicians."</p><p>"Yes, well, you can't see them <em>now</em>," he said with a frown, swallowing as his eyes darted to the ground. "They've been blown to smithereens."</p><p>"I saw the joy you gave those men," she said, reaching out and touching the hot skin of his exposed forearm. He flinched at the touch but said nothing, and so she continued speaking.</p><p>"I saw the smiles on their faces when you'd come visit them to go over Mozart. It was fate that they found you in the latrines that day, and not Colonel Potter or B.J. or someone else. They found <em>you</em>."</p><p>She could see that Charles wanted to reply, but his eyes wouldn't lock onto hers long enough to allow it. Instead, he seemed genuinely troubled by her words, his eyes darting about on the ground, blinking rapidly as his breaths came in shallow pants.</p><p>"They were more than just POWs to you, Charles," she murmured barely louder than a whisper, "They were your quintet, your <em>orchestra</em>."</p><p>Margaret had to stifle a gasp when she saw the tears brimming in Charles's eyes now. Instinctively, she reached out and pulled him against her in a warm embrace, wrapping her arms around his larger frame.</p><p>She could feel him uncross his arms now, his quaking breaths and thudding heart in her ears as she laid her head against his chest. His arms were at his sides, pinned to him by her tight hug and yet he did not contest the hug, did not struggle. It was both surprising and endearing that Charles Winchester was allowing such an act in a public place and yet, he <em>was</em>.</p>
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<a name="section0017"><h2>17. Strip Tease</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The phonograph and picnic basket now stowed safely in the trunk of her rental car, Margaret sat next to Charles on the picnic blanket as they watched the river together. Now they were on their second bottle of expensive wine, sipping from their glasses idly as their eyes followed a passing tugboat.</p><p>"I never thought I'd do something like this again," Charles muttered wistfully, his eyes locked on the river. "And certainly not with you."</p><p>"A picnic?"</p><p>"Coming here, in particular. Massachusetts General is within walking distance and yet, I've no further connections to it. In fact, I'd resigned myself to spending all my breaks in Boston Mercy cafeteria, staring out at an expanse of pavement day after day."</p><p>"Wow—that view sounds just delightful," she commented sarcastically. "Well, now that you've seen what your lunch <em>could</em> be like, do you think you'll come here again?"</p><p>"If it were up to me, I'd say no…"</p><p>She made a face of disappointment, which incited him to continue clarifying.</p><p>"…which admittedly would be a mistake, though perhaps if <em>you </em>were to work at Boston Mercy, then I might be convinced to make this foray every once in a while."</p><p>Now Margaret was smiling at him, sitting ever so close to him on this beautiful Sunday. He felt a strange longing at meeting her eyes, a magnetism that seemed to inexplicably draw his face toward hers. And yet at catching the barely evident movement towards her, he quickly turned his head and straightened his shoulders again, petrified at his apparent lack of bodily control. Margaret could very well be a <em>permanent</em> fixture in his life in due time, if he could only avoid spoiling it with imprudent acts such as this. Promptly Charles stood up, clearing his throat and shoving his hands in his pockets.</p><p>"What's wrong?" Margaret asked.</p><p>"I really should be getting back, Margaret," he said, sliding his hand out of his pocket to glance at his wristwatch. "It's now nearly three in the afternoon. You <em>will</em> consider my offer to work in my department, will you not?"</p><p>"Your sister tells me you've worked every day since you started," Margaret said. "And <em>I</em> am telling you that you should take a break. You've already worked six hours today. Just sit down a bit longer—we can watch that barge float by."</p><p>Thankful that his unexpected amorous urge was now gone, Charles sighed and swallowed, lowering himself back onto the blanket to sit next to Margaret once again.</p><p>"I in fact did not work today and instead fell asleep, rather unintentionally," he said, rubbing the back of his sweaty neck self-consciously. "If I am brought back to my office too late in the day, it's quite likely I'll fall asleep again."</p><p>"If you're tired, why don't you close your eyes?" she said, peering over at the awkward, bent-kneed way her companion was sitting, his long legs ill-equipped for such a position. "Lie back, Charles. Is taking a little break going to kill you?"</p><p>Charles looked over at her insistent smile and sighed, straightening out his legs and allowing himself to slowly sink back onto his elbows.</p><p>"There," Margaret replied with a growing grin, "it's not so hard, is it?"</p><p>"My shoes," he grumbled, pointing at his feet, which, because he was so tall, were not on the blanket. "They're Italian. They'll get ruined in the grass."</p><p>"I thought you couldn't stand Italians," Margaret commented with a chuckle. "I recall you being horrified when you learned your sister was engaged to one."</p><p>"I very much regret my past preconceptions," he replied, wincing. "They do make damn good shoes, after all."</p><p>Now Margaret was scooting her body across the blanket, saying nothing as she reached out and grabbed one of his feet. Charles's eyes went wide—what in the world was she doing?</p><p>He watched in stunned wonder as Margaret smoothly removed each of his shoes followed by a rapid, wordless removal of his socks. It was quite freeing, to feel a gentle breeze where there was once stifling heat. And yet, he was concerned. Though Margaret had done so in the spirit of relaxation, the fact that she had, for all intents and purposes, <em>undressed</em> him, was having quite the opposite effect on his mind.</p><p>His feet newly bare, shoes and socks positioned neatly on the picnic blanket, Charles rolled over to face Margaret, who had now returned to her side of the blanket, reaching down to remove her own shoes. He could feel his face flush and breathing quicken as he observed her actions, culminating in the revelation of her small feminine feet. He'd certainly seen Margaret's bare feet before in Korea, and yet, it had not been during the various times they'd spent alone together.</p><p>Now that Margaret was free of her shoes as well, she lie back down, turning on her side to face Charles, who was more than a bit flustered. Did she realize what she was doing here, first hugging him and now removing his clothing?</p><p>"Close your eyes," she said, her voice amiable and soft—far too soft. The sounds of the Charles River, the environment around them—the other picnickers, the cars slowly driving past, birdsong, the wind—had faded into nothingness in his mind. His thoughts on music, Korea, Bob Sullivan, the mistakes he'd made at Boston Mercy, including the fact that he should be there at this very moment, were gone. All that he could sense was that he was now lying beside his friend Margaret in a partial, albeit negligible, state of undress.</p><p>"Come on, Charles; play along," she said, reaching out and touching his arm from across the blanket. "It'll do you a world of good."</p><p>"<em>Play</em>?" he muttered, mouth suddenly dry. He blinked several times in an attempt to clear his head, watching Margaret move her hand back to her side of the blanket. Did she truly not see what she was suggesting here?</p><p>"Just close your damn eyes, Charles!" she said again, more forcefully this time. "Here, I'll go first."</p><p>It was then that Margaret folded her arms daintily under her head, placing her head atop the makeshift cushion and shutting her eyes peacefully, a smile on her lips. So she had indeed intended on having them both relax. Charles was simultaneously relieved and disappointed by the fact.</p><p>Now that her eyes were closed, Charles could gaze at her openly. He studied her gently closed eyes, the curve of a smile on her full lips, her golden hair somehow perfectly framing her face. Would she follow through and apply for a job in his department? It would be refreshing having a nurse on the team who knew him well, a nurse who knew what he needed. She was the best nurse he knew, a significant statement considering his experience at Harvard and his burgeoning career at Massachusetts General alongside countless surgical nurses for the better part of eight years. Not only that, but Margaret had powerful, outspoken affectations that would not only serve to prevent him from wallowing in his own self-pity, but would also force him to enjoy his life. Yes, life with Margaret here in Boston might not be such a bad thing.</p><p>Feeling a smile spreading across his own lips at this new hope, Charles tucked his arms under his head and closed his eyes.</p><hr/><p>The sound of a bellowing foghorn startled Charles from his sleep. He jerked his head up, scrambling to his hands and knees on the now rumbled picnic blanket as the darkened environment around him came sharply into focus. He wasn't in Korea, cowering behind a rampart only to be delivered new casualties. In fact, was that not the Charles River behind him and Margaret Houlihan mere inches from his body?</p><p>"Margaret," he called out in a harsh whisper, peering out at the misty Charles River in search of the source of the sound. He stood up now, squinting into the impenetrable fog floating on the river, his bare feet cold on the dewy grass beside the picnic blanket. The foghorn blasted again, making him jolt. Somehow Margaret was continuing to sleep in spite of the deafening sound—was she alright?</p><p>With fresh disregard for the sound of a possible impending barge collision, Charles quickly sank back down to his hands and knees in the dark, to the still form of Margaret.</p><p>"Margaret, wake up!" he cried, panic rising in his throat, reaching out to shake her. "Please! Wake up, Margaret!" He peered around at the park around them; the grassy hillside, empty park benches, and tall oaks and willows of the Charles River Esplanade. How had he allowed for them to sleep out in the open like this, where anyone could have come along and assailed them? Not only that, but they'd bedded down a mere three or four yards from the river, where they could have easily been dumped to drown!</p><p>Now Margaret was stirring, smacking her lips together as she felt Winchester insistently shoving her, his hands on her arms, her side, even her face.</p><p>"Wh-what's wrong?" she murmured, her voice thick from sleep.</p><p>"What's wrong is it's now <em>night</em>, Margaret!" Charles whispered harshly at her. "We slept here the whole day!"</p><p>Now Margaret pulled herself into a seated position and she peered down at her wristwatch.</p><p>"Oh, wow, it's 7:30," she muttered, shaking her head. "We really slept, didn't we?"</p><p>"How can you be so nonchalant? We were unconscious in the middle of a damn park, sitting ducks for assault!"</p><p>"And yet," she said yawningly, glancing around to see his tie, the empty wine bottle, two wine glasses, and the two pairs of shoes still sitting on the blanket, "we survived. No harm, no foul—well, I <em>do</em> see geese, but no ducks."</p><p>"And to think, I thought I'd heard the last of Pierce," he groaned. "We could have been <em>killed</em>, lying out here in the open; robbed blind! Oh my God—my wallet." He stood up again on the picnic blanket, frantically reaching into the back pocket of his trousers in search of his wallet. His sizable wad of money and his driver's license and Diner's Card right were right where he'd left them.</p><p>"Are you seriously implying you've never fallen asleep out in the open?" she questioned. "Do you really think the walls of the Swamp, if you could call them that, could have protected you from wild dogs, or hell, I dunno, <em>enemy</em> <em>soldiers</em>?"</p><p>"Touché."</p><p>Margaret said nothing else, instead pulling her shoes toward her and sliding them back onto her feet. Charles soon joined her back on the blanket, sliding his socks and shoes back on, an instantaneous return to the responsibilities he'd left behind today.</p><p>"Well, it's about time for dinner now," Margaret stated, standing up and dusting off her clothing. "Let's go somewhere to eat."</p><p>"A question, if I may," Charles replied, holding up a finger of impatience as he stood up, "are you, uh, intending on applying for work at Boston Mercy Hospital?"</p><p>"I'm certainly considering it very strongly," Margaret replied, giving him a look of confusion. "Why?"</p><p>"Because if you are planning to stay in Boston permanently, these nightly outings are soon to bleed us dry."</p><p>As soon as the words left his mouth, he regretted them. With his statement, Margaret's lackadaisical look instantly disappeared, replaced with exasperation and ire. Her jaw clenched, Margaret forcefully snatched up the empty wine glasses and bottle in one hand, yanking the picnic blanket off of the ground with the other. She stood several feet from him now, glaring up at Charles as she clutched the items in her hands.</p><p>"Two nights of dinner is too much for a Winchester? Are you kidding me right now? Like I said last night, I don't expect you to pay for everything, you tightwad!"</p><p>"Wait, Margaret," he began, wincing at her hurled insult, "are you implying that you <em>won't</em> come to expect—"</p><p>"Do you know how much it cost me to fly here from Tokyo on a moment's notice?" she spat. She threw up her hands in frustration, the glasses clinking together loudly as she did so. "You know what? You wouldn't understand anyway. It's probably <em>peanuts</em> to you."</p><p>"What are you saying?" Charles blurted, blinking in confusion as the entire day seemed to crash down upon him in the darkness.</p><p>"What I'm trying to say," Margaret began, "is even though I have very little to my name right now, I was willing to spend it to be here with you. It's probably why I'm not rich like you—I actually <em>spend</em> my money!"</p><p>And with that, she stomped off into the darkness, her form only dimly lit by the occasional gaslight as she headed for her rental car. Eyes widening with surprise at her sudden decision to leave, Charles picked up the tie that had fallen on the grass before jogging to catch up with her.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thoughts?  AO3 sure is a quiet place!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0018"><h2>18. Hard Worker</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The silence between them was deafening as Margaret drove Charles back to Boston Mercy. He'd been considering the implications of Margaret being hired as part of his surgical team and the benefits of such an arrangement certainly outweighed any negatives. And yet, the disastrous end to this evening threatened to possibly change her mind. Tomorrow was Monday and he would not be at liberty to be pulled from his office for an amiable jaunt to the park. Not only that, but he would have to remain at work until late to make up for the lack of work he'd completed this weekend.</p><p>In fact, this was perhaps the only moment he'd have in the next 26 hours or so to make his case for her to stay, if indeed he wanted that to happen.</p><p>"Margaret, I—"</p><p>"Don't even bother," she interrupted, gesturing dismissively. "I got your message loud and clear."</p><p>"The message being?" he quickly asked.</p><p>"You don't want me here. I'm a waste of your time and apparently also a waste of your money. You couldn't have been more clearer."</p><p>"I think <em>clearer</em> alone would suffice," he said, reflexively correcting her grammar and wincing at realizing his stupidity in saying such a thing. When he ended the wince, the glare Margaret was shooting at him was poisonous.</p><p>"But no, Margaret, you're wrong!" he said, looking right at her. "In fact, I very much want you to stay. I would not have suggested it had I not meant it."</p><p>"That's bullshit and you know it!" Margaret blurted, briefly turning to address him. "It was by accident that you mentioned it yesterday. I in fact forced you to tell me what you said to your colleague. This so-called offer is just hot air, to try to make me feel better."</p><p>"It's not," Charles said, shaking his head. "I do want you to stay, Margaret. I simply hadn't considered that <em>you'd</em> want to stay, is all."</p><p>"Must we go through this again?" she grumbled, rolling her eyes in frustration.</p><p>"I suppose it makes sense now, why you came to Boston," Charles commented, something occurring to him. "You were looking for a job. Boston Mercy is a top civilian hospital, and well, you <em>do</em> have your Uncle Bob…"</p><p>"You wanna know the truth? I came here because your sister called me," Margaret blurted, crossing her arms. "She has been worried sick about you. And truth to tell, so am I."</p><hr/><p>Charles involuntarily gasped at Margaret's revelation, his eyes wide. So Honoria had opened that letter and taken it upon herself to contact Major Houlihan. He'd never imagined his debutante sister to do something so underhanded, so <em>devious</em>, as to betray his trust. Now everything that Margaret had said or done since arriving in Boston he was forced to consider in a different light. Her visit was not borne of greed for a position in Boston Mercy or for a flowery expression of gratitude in him, nor was it due to any sort of latent romantic interest in him. It was borne simply out of concern for his well-being.</p><p>He was crushed by her admission, having been systemically reduced to an object of pity and nothing more. Once he was better, Margaret would surely make her way to her goal, that being Captain Benjamin Franklin Pierce. His eyes moved from Margaret's, now focusing on nothing in particular, as he thought of how to escape this car with his dignity intact.</p><p>"Margaret, I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself," he replied. "Surely you see now that Honoria's concerns are wholly ungrounded: I can drive, work, sleep, and eat."</p><p>"Is that really how you want to live, doing the minimum it takes to survive? Living in your office is not <em>living</em>, Charles. It hurts me to see you like this."</p><p>He let out a long loud sigh and shook his head, picturing that protracted kiss on the compound.</p><p>"Does it, really, though?" she shot back. "I in fact would call what you are feeling <em>schadenfreude</em>. That <em>is</em> all you are getting out of this, is it not? An eyewitness to the unraveling of Major Ego!"</p><p>He could see the anger building up in her, the increasing tension in her neck as she prepared to reply to his audacious comment. Instinctively, he winced in preparation for her subsequent fury.</p><p>"How can you <em>say</em> such a thing!?" Margaret raged, her face reddening now. "I can't believe I'm hearing this from <em>you</em>, of all people! If <em>you'd</em> replied to my letter instead of your sister, I'd be here just the same!"</p><p>Charles had noticeably shrunk in his seat as he replied to her, his voice laced with anxiety.</p><p>"And yet, we'll never know that for certain, will we?"</p><p>"What do you want me to say, Charles?" she blurted, throwing her arms up in frustration. "That I'm sorry I helped you get a job in Boston? That I wrote that letter? That I care? That I'm here?!"</p><p>"I don't expect an apology," he murmured, flinching as he peered at her out of the corner of his eye. "I, for one, am glad that you are here."</p><p>She rolled her eyes in reply.</p><p>"Well, you could have fooled me!"</p><p>"It's true, Margaret," he whimpered. "Now," he said, planting his hands on the car seat on either side of him, "I must get back to work, if I am to get any sleep tonight. You are free to take whatever leftovers the servants have saved from dinner. I assure you that the Winchester fare is far superior to the slop being served at the vast majority of restaurants around here."</p><p>"And what about <em>you</em>? I don't want to just drop you off and—"</p><p>"I will <em>live</em>, Margaret," he interrupted with a heavy sigh, "contrary to what you and my hysterical sister presume. I hereby free you from your charge to save me from whatever malevolent force you believe to be destroying me."</p><p>With that, he reached for the door handle, but his other wrist was promptly grabbed by Margaret.</p><p>"Only if you pass my test."</p><p>He blinked with disbelief, gaping back at her with surprise.</p><p>"Give yourself a compliment," she ordered, her face serious.</p><p>"A compliment?" he chuckled humorlessly. "Surely you jest."</p><p>"I mean it. A <em>good</em> compliment, not a backhanded one. Then and only then will I be convinced that you are getting better."</p><p>He released the handle and faced forward in the vehicle, planting his hands again on the car seat on either side of him, feeling Margaret release his wrist. He thought deeply about the type of comment he could make that could convince her that he was okay. And yet, no compliments occurred to him; instead there was a tornado of the wrongs he'd committed swirling around in his brain, compounded by his current poor treatment of someone who could only look upon him with pity.</p><p>"I am a hard worker," he finally spat, turning to face her briefly. "There. Now, if you'll excuse me…"</p><p>"That's not specific enough to be a compliment," she scoffed. "It doesn't even address the quality of your work or how much time it takes you to finish. In fact, that may be the worst thing I've ever heard you say about yourself."</p><p>"Then you must forgive me, for I cannot recall the apparent unspoken clause in your request regarding the level of ambiguity you were prepared to accept." His hand moved back to the door handle. He bowed his head to her, opening the door as he did so. "Goodnight."</p><p>"Let me ask you one last thing," she blurted, touching his hand again, "did you enjoy one iota of our day today? Or are you too far-gone to get any pleasure out of anything anymore?"</p><p>Charles turned away from the open car door to look at Margaret. On her face was a mix of trepidation and hope. Her hand was on his, her manicured fingers curling around the dorsal aspect of his hand. Was that simply the face of pity personified, or did her look of extreme vulnerability suggest something more? His resolve softened, not only from the hand position, but also from her vulnerable words and her expression. This was not the look he would give to someone he pitied, not the behavior of someone in a position of superiority.</p><p>"I did, in fact, enjoy my day with you very much," he began, a troubled smile materializing on his face now, his gaze traveling from their hands up to her face. "In spite of my now knowing your true intention for coming here, I will forever cherish those many hours lying beside you, albeit unconsciously. Goodnight, Margaret."</p><p>Margaret's eyes went wide, the anxiety on her face turning to bewilderment. Charles had no intention of giving her the chance to tear down that last bastion of happiness left standing in the wake of her revelation, and promptly got out of the car.</p><p>Her mouth ajar, Margaret watched Charles walk at an incredible rate of speed into Boston Mercy Hospital. Just before he reached the front doors, she could see him briefly glancing back at her car, his expression unreadable at this distance.</p><p>As he entered the building, Margaret sat unmoving in her vehicle, floored by Charles's impromptu revelation. Was that a confession of love? If not, then what the hell was it?</p><hr/><p>Margaret Houlihan stood up from her bed at the sound of the front door opening on the floor below. Charles had finally come home from the office at an eye-watering eleven in the evening. After graciously eating leftovers from the Winchesters' multi-course meal, she'd been pacing in the guest room for hours, considering what to say to Charles upon his return to Beacon Hill.</p><p>Should she take Charles up on the incredible offer to work in his department, knowing that he might possibly be harboring feelings for her? Or would it be unethical to strive for such a position in light of this new knowledge? Certainly her doomed affair with Hawkeye Pierce had made things quite awkward between them for some time both in and outside of the O.R., but they <em>had</em> both grown past it to remain close friends… hadn't they? In joining the department of thoracic surgery at Boston Mercy, she would be a potential distraction to Charles. But was it a <em>good</em> distraction, a goal to achieve, or a<em> bad</em> distraction, something that could never be attained?</p><p>It was only six months or so after Charles's arrival at the 4077th that any burgeoning interest Margaret had had in Charles Winchester III had been promptly extinguished by the fateful encounter they'd had in the stock room. In that encounter, Charles had sided with her now ex-mother-in-law about her inability to be accepted as an associate member of the DAR, and had then proceeded to leer at her as if she were livestock.</p><p>And yet, since that time, there had been moments of kindness, moments of closeness and vulnerability, when she'd learned far more about the man she'd sworn off as a pretentious effete blueblood who looked down his nose at anything without a pedigree. For instance, when he'd refused to disparage her at the encouragement of Colonel Baldwin, which would have guaranteed him the transfer to Tokyo he so desired, she'd seen the honorable, loyal side of him. When he'd given her his gloves for those bitter cold days, she'd appreciated his (temporary) generosity. And it was only a couple of months ago that she'd given him a big appreciative kiss on the lips for what he'd done in bringing her hero Dr. Steven Chesler to the 4077th. If she was being completely honest with herself, if the kiss hadn't taken place in the mess tent, she suspected it could have perhaps gone further.</p><p>Charles Winchester had certainly changed from the arrogant man who'd first arrived at the M.A.S.H.. Slowly over the course of their tenure in Korea together, the cloak of pomposity had slipped down off of Charles's shoulders, and now that she'd arrived in Boston, he'd lost it completely. He was now dangerously vulnerable, his emotions raw, all affectation gone. And despite his massive mood swings and misdirected anger, she found herself to be utterly fascinated by this vulnerable new Charles.</p><p>Now she could hear Charles's footfalls as he ascended the stairs. She gulped, completely unprepared in spite of her hours of pacing. What in the world would she say to him?</p><p>Her pulse thudding in her neck, Margaret straightened her silky pajamas, one of the few possessions she hadn't sold before shipping out to Tokyo, and stepped out into the dimly lit, sconce-lined hallway. Charles's head was down, his briefcase in hand, as he unknowingly headed straight for her to the room next door.</p><p>"Charles," she finally said, when it seemed as if he was not intending on ever looking up.</p><p>Startled by the voice at this hour, Charles's head shot up, and he promptly dropped his briefcase on the floor with a clatter.</p><p>"Margaret, you're awake," he murmured, a look of concern on his face. "Is everything alright?"</p><p>"I'm glad you made it home," she admitted, feeling foolish addressing him in her pajamas. "I was getting worried."</p><p>"I've enough people worried about me," he scoffed, bending down to pick up his briefcase. "No use adding yourself to the list." He opened the room to his door, peering back at her, his expression neutral. "I, uh, imagine you'll be leaving Boston soon," he added quietly. She could see that despite the pretense of serenity, Charles had followed his statement with a gulp, his Adam's apple noticeably rising and falling in his throat.</p><p>"Is that what you want?" she countered.</p><p>Rather than enter his room, Charles turned to look at her, his shoulders perceptibly dropping in profile. The mask of neutrality he'd applied to his earlier statement had vanished, revealing that of bitter hopelessness.</p><p>"No," he replied, his face stricken. "It's not."</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0019"><h2>19. Clyde Sir</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>At six in the morning, Charles cheerfully emerged from his bed and began preparations for a long day at work. There was a new energy about him this morning, not driven by caffeine or some other stimulant, but by a renewed hope he had for the future.</p><p>Margaret had told him last night that she would in fact apply for a nursing position in his department, a decision that overjoyed him far more than he'd ever imagined it could. Now he could tell his colleagues of her multitude of qualifications and hopefully the decision would be made rather quickly with his ringing endorsement. Margaret was to bring her resume to the hospital later on in the day and sit down for an interview, and it was a distinct possibility that she could start her new job in a mere day or two.</p><p>By Margaret committing herself to Boston Mercy, and to him by association, the anger he felt towards his own sister's deep betrayal had been greatly lessened. Were it not for Honoria inviting Margaret to Boston, none of this would be possible. Perhaps he should in fact <em>thank</em> his sister for what she'd done; that is, after he first gave her the impression that he was unforgivably angry with her. Yes, that would be appropriate, he thought, adjusting his tie in the bathroom mirror, a devious little smile on his face.</p><p>Margaret had already informed him that upon getting hired, she would be finding her own apartment, and today she would be beginning a search for a place to live. Charles had graciously recommended the neighborhoods of Back Bay, West Roxbury, or Longwood, which were all less expensive than Beacon Hill but still relatively safe, upper-class neighborhoods that valued education.</p><p>When he'd finally made it to his office on the seventh floor of Boston Mercy Hospital on a beautiful Monday morning, Charles caught himself whistling a song from La Traviata. Perhaps this was what he was missing from his life—a human connection.</p><p>Life was certainly looking better with each moment. Margaret would soon be standing next to him in the O.R., their hands and instruments working together in perfect harmony, much like the baton of a conductor presiding over an orchestra. He could not help but anticipate the end-of-day meeting in which he'd be assigning surgeons to cases for the week. No longer would he sit alone in his office for long, uninterrupted stretches; if Margaret was to work here, he wanted to be standing right beside her.</p><hr/><p>"Good afternoon, Charles," Daniel Jackson commented, at watching what seemed to be a different man stride into the conference room at the Monday afternoon department meeting. Dr. Charles Winchester strode into the room at his full imposing height, his shoulders back, a new twinkle in his eye and a pleasant smile on his face. He easily looked ten years younger, full of renewed confidence and poise.</p><p>"Good afternoon, gentlemen," Charles replied in his upper-crust Boston drawl, his smile spreading, light blue eyes scanning the room. All but one of the surgeons in the department were present. Dr. Daniel Jackson seemed to be far less nervous now than he'd been in previous meetings, seated beside a confident-looking Dr. Clyde O'Rourke and slouching Dr. Harold Baker. On the other side of the table sat Dr. Thomas Steinberg and Dr. Henry Fitzgerald. Though each of them was a slightly different height, some with glasses and some without, the hairstyles, hair color, and degrees of male pattern baldness varying greatly between them, they appeared as a sea of smiling white coats anxiously awaiting his next words. The only member of his department he was even vaguely familiar with so far was Dr. Jackson. Perhaps today he could start really connecting with his other colleagues.</p><p>"I have examined last weeks' postoperative reports in full and am quite pleased with our success rate, in combination with an extremely low complication rate. To begin, that difficult hiatal hernia case from last Monday turned out beautifully. The patient in follow-up on Friday said it's the first time in years he hasn't experienced heartburn. Congratulations, Dr. Steinberg."</p><p>"Tom, please," Dr. Steinberg suggested, lowering his glasses with a little smile.</p><p>"But my name's not Tom," Charles said with a little guffaw, eliciting some nervous laughter. Who was this jovial man standing at the head of the conference room table and where had he hidden the somber, grim-faced Chief of Thoracic Surgery?</p><p>"Right—now, as for the Ravitch technique performed on the young pectus excavatum patient on… Tuesday," he said, peering down at the report in his hand. "There was some suspicion that the patient had begun to develop adhesions… but in fact it was simply that his gauze had been wrapped too tightly! A very good outcome from a complicated procedure, Dr. O'Rourke. We must ensure our nurses aren't overzealous in applying the dressings next time."</p><p>Dr. O'Rourke smiled then, the surgeon of reference.</p><p>"Certainly, Sir. And please, call me Clyde, Sir."</p><p>"I certainly will, <em>Clyde-Sir</em>," Charles remarked, his eyes twinkling with amusement, cheeks pink and face wholly transformed from his wide smile.</p><p>"Now we come to Wednesday's cases," Charles said, picking up the next report. "Dr. Meisner's aortic aneurysm repair was a resounding success, in spite of a rapidly-growing pericardial effusion. Did anyone happen to get a good look at the aneurysm?"</p><p>Several of the surgeons shook their heads; the ones who hadn't shook their heads simply sat awaiting his comment.</p><p>"I suppose that's one benefit of being chief surgeon, being called in to see such… peculiarities. I must say, the bulge in that man's ascending aorta was nearly the size of a walnut! I've no idea how Dr. Meisner finished the procedure in less than five hours." He shrugged good-naturedly, placing the report on the table and shoving his hands in the pockets of his white coat. "That may be why he isn't here; perhaps he is still working on it as we speak!"</p><p>Now the surgeons were relaxing a bit in spite of their superior's abrupt about-face, apparently precipitated by the events of a single weekend. The five men smiled more now, leaning back in their chairs and crossing their legs in a more natural fashion. These afternoon meetings had been positively funereal these past three weeks and now it seemed as if their Chief Surgeon had been replaced with a jolly body double!</p><p>Suddenly, Dr. Arthur Meisner, the missing surgeon, entered the room, ducking down quickly as he shot Charles a sheepish look.</p><p>"Ah, Dr. Meisner," Charles commented as the surgeon entered the room, "I just finished reviewing your aneurysm repair from Wednesday. You missed a rather lavish heaping of praise, but I expect you will receive it again if you are able to maintain that level of care."</p><p>"Thank you, Sir. Please, call me Arthur," Dr. Meisner said, sitting down now with a confused look on his face.</p><p>"'kyu," Charles replied, following his clipped thanks with a tight smile. He picked up the next postoperative report, maintaining his good-natured air through the remainder of the procedures for the week. When last it came to the lobectomy he himself had performed at the end of the week, he held the postoperative report in one hand, a sheepish grin on his face.</p><p>"Lastly, I'm certain you've all by now heard of the… incident this past Friday," he began. "I must say, gentlemen, that I hope my unfortunate experience in the O.R. serve as a warning to never skip lunch, no matter how repulsive hospital food tastes," he said with a little laugh, shaking the report around for emphasis. "Because even when your digestive tract is devoid of all nutrition and your head as light as a feather, you will still fall at the speed of gravity at the most inopportune time."</p><p>Though they'd gotten progressively more relaxed and willing to laugh with each ensuing procedural review, the surgeons at the table neglected to laugh at the foibles of their superior, and in fact, it was only Dan Jackson who managed a genuine smile of amusement.</p><p>"It's not a trap, gentlemen!" Charles explained, his smile steadily growing. "You are free to laugh at will. I can only hope that Friday's incident was the worst thing I will ever do, but I highly doubt it."</p><hr/><p>The meeting then moved on to the question of additional hires for surgical nurses. Dr. Daniel Jackson stood up shortly after Charles had sat down, holding up Major Houlihan's resume.</p><p>"I propose that we discuss this potential hire for a while and decide if she would be a good fit for our department," Dr. Jackson began. "Her name is Major Margaret Houlihan. She was here earlier today to drop off her resume and interview with myself and Dr. Torborg. Not only that, but she comes highly recommended by Dr. Winchester—ehem, <em>Charles</em>—and she has considerable experience in surgical nursing, having graduated from nursing school in..." He peered down at the resume for reference, "let's see here—<em>1942</em>, and then working for the next 11 years in the Army Nurse Corps not only during World War II but for the entirety of the Korean War as well."</p><p>"How does Dr. Winchester know her?" Dr. O'Rourke questioned.</p><p>Now Charles was alerted to the question, and stood back up to explicate.</p><p>"Glad you should ask, Clyde. And it's Charles. She and I worked together for the better part of two years, from '51 to July of '53. We were stationed together at a M.A.S.H. unit in Korea, one that received thousands of casualties from both sides during the war. As head nurse <em>and</em> the highest ranked female at the 4077th, she held her nurses to the highest standards and performed her duties outstandingly. The multitude of casualties seen during that time not only honed her nursing skills to the highest degree, but also those of the many nurses in her charge. It was not us surgeons, but in fact, <em>Major Houlihan</em> who I am certain was responsible for the impressive 98% survival rate of the 4077th M.A.S.H.. With that being said, I am more than happy to answer any and all questions about her abilities."</p><p>"Ninety-eight percent? How could a mere nurse be responsible for that survival rate?" Dr. Baker questioned, his face solemn.</p><p>"A <em>mere</em> nurse?" Charles replied, eyes wide. "Bite your tongue! Major Houlihan is the finest nurse—the finest <em>medical personnel</em>—I've ever known. The multitude of responsibilities charged to Major Houlihan and her nurses would cause us mere surgeons to collapse in total exhaustion in a matter of days."</p><p>"What all did they do?" Dr. Jackson asked, with a look of interest, recalling the obvious frustration Charles had expressed with Nurse Hays only recently. What magic had these nurses performed to make an impatient surgeon heap all of the credit on them?</p><p>"I'm all too happy to explain," Charles explained with a little grin. "Not only did the nurses of the 4077th help triage the incoming casualties, but they ensured that the O.R. was ready and that the patients were properly prepped and stabilized. Major Houlihan trained them not only in the duties I've just mentioned, but also to assist in the surgeries and to administer anesthesia, which is something I've noticed the nurses here are not trained to do."</p><p>The fact that the nurses of the 4077th were well-versed in anesthesia certainly seemed to impress many of Charles's colleagues, who nodded between themselves.</p><p>"But we have anesthetists for that," Dr. Meisner commented, fidgeting in his chair. "That may be something Major Houlihan can very well do, but it's not necessary here."</p><p>"The point of my mentioning such things is that Major Houlihan and her nurses were well-versed in every aspect of patient care, from the very second the casualties arrived to the exact moment they departed the compound. We surgeons were merely responsible for a small fraction of their stay: the surgery itself and any necessary follow-up in post-op."</p><p>If Pierce, Hunnicutt, or anyone at the 4077th had heard Charles's impassioned speech on behalf of the nurses, they would have scarcely believed their ears. Even Dr. Daniel Jackson was leaning forward, amazed at the complimentary nature of this man who had been so obviously irritated with the nursing staff in their department.</p><p>"…But is she good-looking?" the bespectacled redhead Clyde O'Rourke suggested, smiling a devilish smile. The other surgeons in the table laughed in turn.</p><p>Charles was taken aback by the comment. Finally, someone had allowed their guard down enough to crack a joke, and yet it was a remark that not only did not elicit laughter from him, but in fact made him very uncomfortable. He hadn't considered that many of his colleagues were single men in want of a wife. He scanned the left hands of the men in the room—Dr. O'Rourke, Dr. Fitzgerald, and Dr. Jackson notably did not wear wedding rings. Of course, they could have been married but simply had removed their rings for surgery. And yet, he could not in good conscience answer the question.</p><p>"It does not take <em>good looks</em> to be successful in surgery, as I'm sure you are well-aware," Charles shot back at Dr. Rourke, flashing an equally mischievous smile. Several surgeons in the room guffawed, their amusement now at a fever pitch. Now Dr. O'Rourke was caught off-guard, a fact that thrilled Charles to no end. It had been the perfect day, and things were only set to get better, upon Margaret's hiring.</p><p>"May I request only <em>relevant</em> questions from now on, please," he suggested. "Gentlemen."</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0020"><h2>20. Announcement</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>At ten after seven in the evening, Charles Emerson Winchester III strode into his family home on Briarcliff Lane, grinning widely, his nose filled with the delicious odor of dinner wafting into the foyer. He'd seen Margaret's rented Buick Roadmaster parked outside the house and immediately attempted to guess if she would be found in the dining room with his family, or in her quarters upstairs.</p><p>Charles first entered the dining room to find his father, mother, and sister all seated at the table, awaiting the first course.</p><p>"Will you be joining us for dinner?" Charles's mother said, seeming to come alive as he stood at the far end of the long table. "I can have the servants bring out your place setting—"</p><p>"Where's Margaret?" he asked, his eyes darting about the room to find her absent.</p><p>"I th-think she's upstairs," Honoria replied, smiling with disbelief at the change in her brother. Not only was he grinning, but he in fact the very opposite of the sulking, slump-shouldered man who had been merely utilizing their family home for a place to sleep. He hesitated for a moment too long, inducing his father to finally react to his presence at the evening meal.</p><p>His father mechanically rose to his feet, planting his hands on the surface of the table. Now the servants had emerged from the kitchen carrying two tureens.</p><p>"Son," Charles Winchester Jr. stated, as he gestured to an empty chair, "please, tell us what you did today."</p><p>"I've no time for that, 'kyu," the younger man replied, subtly shaking his head. "Now, if you'll excuse me."</p><p>With that, he gave his family a little bow and then jogged in the direction of the stairs.</p><p>He'd departed the room with such haste that he'd missed noticing his father's dropped jaw and the surprised glances exchanged between his sister and mother.</p><hr/><p>Margaret had only just lately returned from her apartment search. She had changed out of her outfit for the day into pants and a simple blouse, torn between eating dinner with Charles's family and waiting for him to arrive. She sat on the edge of the bed in her quarters, having paused in her perusal of her book of sonnets for an inordinate amount of time to lightly run her fingers over the address and phone number written on the flyleaf.</p><p>"Margaret," the voice suddenly erupted from the door, accompanied by a flurry of knocks. "It's Charles."</p><p>Immediately she put down the book and approached the door, opening it to find a positively giddy Charles, his current energy and devilish twinkle in his eye reminiscent of those few days in Korea in which he'd devised increasingly elaborate pranks between her and Captains Hunnicutt and Pierce.</p><p>"What is it, Charles? You look so—"</p><p>"Happy? Why, yes, yes I am."</p><p>With that, he set down his briefcase, shoving his hands in his pockets, a crooked boyish grin playing across his mouth.</p><p>"Any particular reason?" Margaret questioned, highly intrigued by his stark change in mood and behavior.</p><p>"I have come to tell you that you have hereby been offered a job as a surgical nurse in the Department of Thoracic Surgery at Boston Mercy Hospital."</p><p>The smile he flashed her now was positively feline, his lips curled up at the corners.</p><p>"Oh My God!" she exclaimed, taken aback. "That fast? How did they decide so <em>fast</em>? You must have said some really nice things about me."</p><p>"I simply… described your appearance," he said, shrugging, his mischievous grin growing, "and they were convinced."</p><p>"What?" she blurted, her eyes wide with disbelief. "No, you didn't!"</p><p>"Course not, Margaret," Charles replied, chuckling good-naturedly. "What do you take me for? I in fact described at length your qualifications and your considerable experience in training the many nurses in your charge. It was all very matter-of-fact and quite convincing, if I may say so myself."</p><p>Before he could say or do anything, Margaret wrapped her arms tightly around Charles Winchester, hugging him rather ardently in her doorway. After a moment of surprise, he removed his hands from his pockets and hugged her in turn, feeling her heartbeat thudding against his own chest. Relief flooded him at her response; this could have gone a very different way had she not been completely sold on working in Boston.</p><p>He could smell her perfume now, the scent of shampoo in her hair, could hear her breaths entering and exiting through her open mouth. Everything would be alright now; he had Margaret to thank for that. Charles shut his eyes, his body melting in her embrace. And Margaret's palpable excitement at getting to stay in Boston and work with him was intoxicating, to say the least. There was suddenly an overwhelming urge for Charles to move this hug forward several steps into her room, and shut the door behind them, an urge he had to actively fight. And yet, another urge arose within him, an urge to lower his face to Margaret's level, their eyes and lips locking. And yet as soon as he considered this, he froze, a cold fear washing over him at the depth of the desire he now realized he possessed for Margaret, desire that was now expressly forbidden.</p><p>He and Margaret were now to be coworkers in a Stateside hospital. These were not the lawless, bohemian wilds of Uijeongbu, where a surgeon could sleep with a different nurse every night and maintain a modicum of respect; this was Boston, Massachusetts. People knew him here. Here, he was a <em>Winchester</em>, summa cum laude of Harvard Medical School, Chief of Thoracic Surgery at Boston Mercy Hospital. To be sure, Margaret was an incredible nurse, but she was also "Hot Lips" Houlihan, a woman who had notoriously carried on with a married man, in addition to having numerous flings with countless Army officers. His stomach felt hollow now at the thought of his mind summarily picking apart the oblivious woman who still continued to hug him.</p><p>And yet, this cold fear accompanied by the reminders of her past somehow did not smother the numerous pleasurable sensations radiating through him: his noticeable increase in breathing rate, the flushing of his face, the warmth in the areas of skin that made direct contact with her own. He had to stifle these sensations, for, unlike the long working relationship he and Margaret could enjoy for many years to come were they to remain collegial, the passion that had led to his numerous love affairs had waned quickly.</p><p>Charles now thought of his highly conventional Republican family sitting downstairs, most likely speaking of Eisenhower and his call for the public censure of Senator McCarthy. As per their correspondence, Charles's father had never fully forgiven Honoria for her marriage to the farmer and her near-wedding to the Italian. Even now, Charles winced at the thought of his father learning of his drunken almost-wedding to Donna Parker, his fleeting affair with the bohemian Martine LeClerc, not to mention his brief infatuation with the Korean prostitute Sooni. Charles would have to uphold the highest standards in his department with respect and integrity. Embraces such as the one Margaret and he were currently enjoying could never happen in the hospital. As happy as he had been only moments ago in telling her of the job offer, these new restrictions for his relationship with Margaret were rapidly decreasing his enthusiasm.</p><p>"Have you eaten yet, Charles?" Margaret said, finally loosening the embrace. "Let me take you out to dinner, to celebrate! My treat!"</p><p>"Ah," Charles said, backing a step or two away. "About that… What if someone were to see us? I don't want people believing that my intentions for your being hired are anything but honorable."</p><p>"But you made it clear that you've known me for years, right? Could we not just be old friends catching up? I don't see what the problem is."</p><p>Now his smile was tinged with sadness.</p><p>"I just don't know if it's appropriate to be potentially seen in public together—"</p><p>"It's just dinner, Charles. I mean, come on, we <em>slept together</em> for the better part of five hours just yesterday, right out in the open!"</p><p>He could not help but get tongue-tied with her double entendre. It was certainly true that they had indeed slept side by side on a single blanket in public, but the <em>way</em> she had said it suggested far more to the act. Had something more happened that he could not recall?</p><p>"You're saying we <em>slept together</em>?" he murmured quietly with frantic-looking eyes, turning his head to look for anyone in earshot, desperately hoping his family hadn't heard her outburst. "Can we, perhaps… continue this conversation in your room?"</p><p>"You're kidding, right?" she said, crossing her arms, her face defiant. "How's <em>that</em> gonna look, Major Virtue?"</p><p>"Point taken," he said, sighing. "But we can't talk about what happened, out here in the open. My family could very well hear—"</p><p>"Did we not sleep yesterday?" she interrupted. "And were we not together on that blanket?"</p><p>"Yes, but the <em>manner</em> in which you said it implies that more hap—"</p><p>"You know damn well what happened. We fell asleep. And you even admitted to enjoying it."</p><p>"I did, Margaret, but things will be different now. We will be <em>colleagues</em>, with a whole new set of societal rules and—"</p><p>"We can drive outside of Boston to get dinner, and if you want, we can talk about this there. In fact, I promise to act like a complete stranger to you, if that's what you'd like."</p><p>"Now, <em>that's </em>not what I'm implying, Margaret," Charles retorted, a look of weariness on his face. "Were it not for the constraints civilized society has imposed on acceptable behavior, I'd be more than happy to take you to a restaurant to celebrate, but we are in Boston and I am a Winchester."</p><p>"Well, I am <em>starving</em>," she replied. "You know what? I think I'll get a bite in Chelsea—alone. I'm sure your surgeon buddies wouldn't be bothered to go to such a supposed dump."</p><p>"Fine," he said, rolling his eyes, "<em>we</em> can go to Chelsea. But we are taking your Buick, not the Bentley. It won't cost nearly as much to replace, should vandals decide to destroy it."</p>
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<a name="section0021"><h2>21. Scab</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Margaret had changed into a simple black dress and low pumps, an outfit that was decidedly less formal than the red dress of Saturday, and yet it bested the blouse and pants she'd worn to their Sunday picnic. When Charles emerged from his chambers next door, his tie was gone and he'd changed his trousers, yet he was carrying what appeared to be a blazer under one arm.</p><p>"You look very nice," Margaret commented, eyeing him up. She hadn't expected him to be dressed so well for a dinner in the self-described dump that was Chelsea.</p><p>"I could say the same for you," Charles said, his tone restrained, giving her a little bow of the head. The deeply vulnerable man Margaret had encountered upon her arrival to Boston seemed to be rapidly fading away, replaced by a return to the Charles Emerson Winchester III of old, a man with more poise than candor. Strangely enough, the fact that he was apparently recovering from his anguish was both good and bad. The Charles Winchester of the M.A.S.H. 4077th was too self-important to concern himself with her, yet the broken Charles described by his sister Honoria, the Charles she'd known these last couple of days, the man who suddenly disappeared after this last embrace, was an entirely different man.</p><p>As they reached the Buick Roadmaster, Charles held out his hand expectantly.</p><p>"Considering that I grew up in Boston, I would be more than happy to drive us to dinner," he commented. "Besides, getting lost in Chelsea is often the advent of a missing persons case around here."</p><hr/><p>"Do you prefer steak or seafood?" Charles asked, briefly turning to address Margaret as they drove slowly along the cobblestone streets that characterized Beacon Hill. Her dress was rather plain but was surprisingly short, or perhaps it was due to the cross-legged way she was sitting in the car.</p><p>"I didn't think Chelsea had such options," she remarked with a shrug. "I guess I'd choose steak, if that's even possible. I've definitely had my fill of seafood—particularly sushi—for at least another year or so."</p><p>"Steak it is," Charles said with a grin. "I figured as much. I know just the place. Your taste buds will soon be crying out in ecstasy."</p><p>"In Chelsea? I thought if anything, I'd be crying out in terror there."</p><p>"You'll see."</p><hr/><p>"This isn't Chelsea," Margaret remarked, distinctly recalling that they would have to cross at least two bridges in order to travel to the Chelsea neighborhood on a due north course. And yet, it seemed as if Charles had made a very large circle without crossing a single river. In fact, they seemed to be flanking the fabled Boston Common of Charles's youth for the entirety of their short journey to the restaurant.</p><p>"Very perceptive, Margaret," Charles said with a grin, pulling his car along the curb. After putting the Buick in park, he pulled a tie out of his blazer and threw it about his neck to tie it.</p><p>"You just drove us in a circle, didn't you? We're only a couple of blocks from your house!"</p><p>"Nothing gets past you," Charles commented, his grin spreading. "We are in fact in the heart of Beacon Hill, my old stomping grounds. The Paramount there," he said, pointing to what appeared to be a small eatery with a red awning, "is a Boston tradition and has surprisingly good steak at a reasonable price point. Are you up to it?"</p><p>"Aren't you worried your surgeon buddies will see us here?"</p><p>"I considered that. Yet, as you can probably surmise from here, the Paramount has very little seating. Not only that, but its seating <em>policy </em>is something you've probably not heard of before."</p><p>"What's that?"</p><p>"We will in fact be made to pay first without being seated, and once our food is ready, a table will open up." He looked down at her feet, remembering yesterday. "I hope those shoes are comfortable."</p><p>"I'm surprised you would condescend to wait," Margaret replied, peering down at her pumps. "That doesn't sound like you."</p><p>"Yes, well, on occasion I like to commiserate with the less fortunate," he replied dryly. "Experiencing how others must subsist, albeit briefly, keeps me grounded."</p><p>It was the kind of statement Charles would have made in the throes of his egotistical rants, and Margaret frowned. Unnoticing of her expression, Charles continued speaking.</p><p>"Well, we should get in line if we hope to eat tonight."</p><hr/><p>The Paramount was a long skinny restaurant, cluttered with tables, with dim chandeliers serving as guides to help a patron walk to the back of the venue, which was set up like a bistro, with a large menu on the wall behind a counter. It was an odd place, appearing to be a fine dining restaurant upon entry to the building, but in fact losing its refinement entirely at the back of the building.</p><p>As Charles promptly pulled out a wad of cash to pay for the dinner, he'd reminded her of what she presumed he'd left behind in Korea.</p><p>"You put your wallet away this instant, Margaret," he insisted, gazing patronizingly at her as she'd opened her wallet. "A Winchester always pays for a meal."</p><p>"I <em>told </em>you I would treat us—"</p><p>"Nonsense," he said, handing over his cash. "You've many expenses in the near future—an apartment, furniture—with your first paycheck lagging a couple of weeks behind. I would like to lessen your burden, so to speak."</p><p>Margaret rolled her eyes, disliking Charles's new dismissiveness. Accustomed to getting her way, she had expected to pay for their meal as she said she would. Conventional machismo and vulnerability were mutually exclusive, so why was Charles behaving like this in light of what she'd told him?</p><hr/><p>Twenty or so minutes later, as Margaret sat at the small square table, she peered down at her sirloin steak and over at the same dish in front of her companion. Unlike their first Boston dinner at the French restaurant, Margaret now seemed to be sitting with an entirely different person: Major Ego, the purveyor of culture and sophistication. As edgy and unstable as he'd been at Marliave, the remarkably smug way he was regarding her now, with little backhanded compliments and haughty remarks as they'd waited for their food, was far more unnerving.</p><p>"Now, Margaret," he said patronizingly, peering down at the way she was holding her knife and fork, "there is a <em>reason</em> for why the silverware is positioned where it is. The knife is for the right hand—and that is in fact a <em>salad</em> fork you are holding. A reminder that this is <em>Boston</em>," he chuckled. "and not Korea, or some Army base in the boondocks."</p><p>Her eyes shot up immediately at the comment, a sour taste in her mouth. She'd convinced herself that Charles Winchester was harboring deeper feelings for her, but it simply could not be; their worlds were too different. Unbeknownst to him, Margaret had driven into Chelsea today to get her refund from the Stanley Hotel today, and was surprised to not find the dump that Charles had described it as being. In fact, she felt far more at ease than she'd ever thought possible as she spotted people much like herself moving about the neighborhood: people driving Fords, Chevys and Buicks, people striding along in last season's hats and worn shoes and wrinkled pants.</p><p>"Oh, is that right?" Margaret shot back, promptly stabbing a piece of steak with the knife and lifting it to her mouth as he winced with embarrassment. "Why bring me here, then?" she added. "I would've eaten in Chelsea. Clearly I'm not high-class enough to be seen in Beacon Hill and with a <em>Winchester</em>, no less."</p><p>"As a surgical nurse at Boston Mercy, there will be times when you will be invited for soirees with colleagues," he replied. "I am simply coaching you on proper dining etiquette, to prevent any sort of faux pas on your part."</p><p>"I guess all that time I spent making all new friends at school every two years when my family moved to the next base should have been spent practicing holding forks then, huh?" she snapped back, the volume of her voice rising.</p><p>"I'm sorry, Margaret," Charles muttered, hoping to not exacerbate her growing anger. "I misspoke. You are in fact <em>left</em>-handed, are you not? In that case, you would, in fact, be holding your utensils correctly—"</p><p>"Aren't there more important things to talk about than this?" she interrupted. "I don't give a damn how you hold your fork. I really don't."</p><p>"I would argue it's because it doesn't inherently attract attention when held correctly. But I can understand that a change in subject is—"</p><p>"How can you be so—yourself?" Margaret spat. It certainly hadn't come out the way she'd meant it, but she hoped its intentions were clear.</p><p>"I'm not certain what you mean," Charles replied, a look of concern, of hurt, in his eyes.</p><p>"I'm saying, the man I was with on Saturday and Sunday is not the man sitting here now."</p><p>For several tense moments, Charles didn't know how to reply. He could only gape at her, having frozen his hands in place hovering over the steak in preparation to cut the meat.</p><p>"Are you referring to <em>me</em>, or were you also out with some other—"</p><p>"This is what I'm talking about!" Margaret exclaimed, throwing her arms up in frustration. "What kind of comment <em>is</em> that, anyway? Ugh!"</p><p>"Margaret, let's not play coy here," he murmured lowly, leaning forward conspiratorially, "you are enamored of the opposite sex and you tend to fall head over heels with incredible rapidity."</p><p>"Oh, is that what you think?" she spat, leaning back and crossing her arms. "Well, you are—whatever the opposite of <em>that</em> is! Now, the Charles from this weekend, now <em>that</em> version of you was…." she trailed off, having caught herself in the midst of a reverie.</p><p>"Surely you realize, Margaret, that it is your presence here that is in fact <em>healing</em> me, as my sister Honoria intended when she contacted you. Ergo, I become more and more like myself."</p><p>"<em>Healing </em>you? Making a big scab, is more like it," Margaret huffed.</p><p>"A scab?" Charles said in a loud whisper, his pretentiousness fading, the distress in his face obvious. "Are you calling me a <em>scab</em>?"</p><p>"Take it as you will," she replied. "Now that I've seen you—<em>really</em> seen you—I realize all of this—" she said, gesturing at him and his tie and the restaurant, "—is just a façade. A big crusty scab hiding the real you, the Charles I was with this weekend."</p><p>"Are you saying you <em>prefer</em> me to be broken, like some kind of… retired polo pony?"</p><p>"Not broken—genuine."</p><p>"Genuinely <em>deranged</em>, is more like it," he snorted with a roll of the eyes, simultaneously revolted and amused by Margaret's confession. His hands had finally become unfrozen and had begun cutting his steak again. "I am <em>surprised</em> at you, Margaret. The best I have to offer as a colleague, as a <em>friend</em>, is the experience that hundreds of years of good breeding has afforded me. And as a soon-to-be permanent resident of Boston, it would only benefit you to know someone whose family in fact is one of only a small subset of influential families that made Boston what it is today."</p><p>"I'd have to disagree with you," she responded, shaking her head. "That's not the best of what you have to offer. In fact, I wouldn't even call it an asset."</p><p>Now he was chuckling, his face expressing bemusement.</p><p>"Surely you jest."</p><p>"Do you ever wonder why we didn't really hit it off when you first arrived at the 4077th?" she asked. "Besides the fact that I was still married to Donald, of course."</p><p>"I would think that reason alone is good enough."</p><p>"It was because of your ego. You constantly had to remind me of our difference in status, in breeding, in <em>everything</em>. I couldn't stand it."</p><p>"Well, it certainly wasn't intentional, Margaret," he responded, taken aback by her commentary. "I thought we had quite the… collegial relationship."</p><p>"Yeah, well, that's all it ever could be."</p><p>Now Charles was swallowing, his eyes wide with apprehension. The Margaret who'd been so patient with him, who'd packed him a picnic and taken off his shoes and socks, the Margaret who'd willingly fallen asleep next to him along the esplanade, the Margaret who'd hugged him with such warmth and enthusiasm not once but <em>thrice</em>—was that the last he'd be seeing of her?</p><p>"What are you saying?" he said, beginning to sweat. "I'm having difficulty understanding what exactly it is you are implying."</p><p>"I'm glad you feel you're getting better, I really am," she began, touching his hand. "I'm glad my being here is healing you. But I'm also sad."</p><p>"Why?"</p><p>"Because I had only just gotten to know you… and now you're gone."</p>
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<a name="section0022"><h2>22. Decisions</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The tension from last night had not resolved properly before Margaret and Charles had gone their separate ways on the second-floor hallway of the Winchester family home. He'd given her the requisite paperwork to sign and yet he hadn't seen her actually sign it.</p><p>Charles stood in front of his bathroom mirror, looking slightly more haggard than usual as he considered what Margaret would do today. It was now Tuesday morning and Margaret had now been back in his life for four days now.</p><p>Margaret's statement from the night before in the restaurant had gutted him, had made it difficult to fall asleep, difficult to even know how to behave. So Margaret preferred him to be damaged, emotional, dangerously vulnerable… His own conduct during the last three days had precipitated a noticeable change in her—a softness and gentleness she didn't often show. And now that he was finally moving forward, she'd fallen back on her old habits and opinions of him, as he'd also apparently done.</p><p>Yet did it really matter what she thought of him? All that mattered was that she could be his nurse again, assisting him in surgeries that took far longer than they had at the M.A.S.H.. They could not have anything but a collegial relationship now. Though Margaret had certainly had her flings at the 4077th, Charles had never ventured into a relationship or even so much as a fling with a nurse at the M.A.S.H., unlike Hawkeye Pierce. And now that he had returned to Boston, his judgmental family, and civilization at large, it was even more reason to never consider such an act.</p><p>Was Margaret incapable of seeing how much their hug the night before had meant to him? For the sake of their working relationship, he had to be the adult now, the rational man who had to remain aloof and uninvolved with his nurse. Did she not understand that? He had been forced to take this new role, but in doing so, he had to uphold the tenets of a Winchester.</p><p>Charles thought about how Margaret had referred to his return to old habits. He stared into the bathroom mirror in his chambers, and sighed again. Did she really think of him now as a scab? And if, indeed, she now thought of him as a scab, would that preclude her from accepting the position?</p><hr/><p>The pile of financial documents seemed to be getting higher and higher in front of him, sitting atop the inactive phonograph on his desk, which added a good ten inches to the height of the stack. Sighing, Charles Winchester stood up and placed the pile of papers on the other far corner of his desk, proceeding to remove the phonograph from his desk and place it on a low shelf behind him.</p><p>He sat down now, a pleased look on his face at the sight of the greatly diminished pile height. This afternoon would be important for his assigning the surgeons in his department to their cases. If Margaret was indeed planning on accepting the position, he would ensure that he'd assigned himself to more cases. The nursing staff seemed to operate independently of the surgical staff, randomly assigning nurses to cases perhaps based on their rapport with the surgeon or perhaps based on their familiarity with the specific procedure.</p><p>And yet,<em> would</em> she accept the position? Ever since she'd arrived in Boston, they'd had some good times and some very bad times, mostly due to his own offhand remarks and primitive emotional outbursts. He frowned as he considered all his thoughtless remarks, his complete lack of tact in responding to the many things she had done that had caught him off-guard. Perhaps she <em>should</em> reconsider working with him.</p><p>The knock at his door shortly before lunch made him flinch. Was Daniel Jackson again attempting to accompany him to lunch?</p><p>"Come in," he said, remaining seated.</p><p>Margaret stood in the doorway, dressed in a two-piece cream outfit consisting of a button up suit jacket over a pencil skirt. Unlike her past visit to his office, she left Winchester's door open. She held a small briefcase in her hand as she smiled at him, watching him quickly rise to his feet behind his desk.</p><p>"Margaret," he blurted, his face that of utter confusion. "What in the world are you… doing here?"</p><p>"I <em>believe</em> I am officially accepting the job offer," she said matter-of-factly, pulling the acceptance papers out of her briefcase.</p><p>A big smile immediately materialized on Charles's face. And yet, he knew he could not again embrace her in his office as they done the last time she was here. A handshake would have to suffice from now on.</p><p>"Congratulations, Major," he remarked, holding out his hand, his smile remaining wide in spite of the growing disappointment at what was now the official end to long embraces with Margaret, and even longer naps together along the esplanade.</p><hr/><p>Upon her acceptance, Charles sought to introduce Margaret to the surgeons with whom she'd be working. Five men in white coats, one without, were soon lined up in the hallway in front of Margaret. Charles introduced each surgeon by his full name as Margaret proceeded to shake each man's hand.</p><p>"Dr. Daniel Jackson."</p><p>Here was a man of average height in his early 40s, with neatly-cut dark brown hair and a kind face. He appeared to be a relatively serene person, perhaps a bit of a kowtower.</p><p>"Dr. Henry Fitzgerald."</p><p>He was tall and skinny though not as tall as Charles. His light brown hair was curly and he wore a pair of small spectacles. He seemed to be irritated that he'd been lined up for this introduction, which was not lost on Margaret, whose smile faded as she shook his hand.</p><p>"Dr. Arthur Meisner."</p><p>This man was only slightly taller than she, with black hair arranged as a type of comb-over and a round pleasant face with a slightly upturned nose and a thin mouth.</p><p>"Dr. Harold Baker."</p><p>Dr. Harold Baker was in fact shorter than Margaret, with large blue eyes, protruding ears buried in a head of graying hair, and a cupid's-bow mouth. He seemed to be an incredibly grave man.</p><p>"Dr. Thomas Steinberg."</p><p>This man was nearly as tall as Charles, with slicked-back gray hair, dark glasses, and a full moustache and beard. When she shook his hand, his skin was as dry as sandpaper.</p><p>"And lastly, Dr. Clyde O'Rourke."</p><p>The only doctor who had opted not to wear a white coat for this introduction, he naturally attracted the most attention of the six surgeons in the department. His hair, thick and wavy, was flame red, a pair of large tortoiseshell glasses on his green eyes, his skin covered in freckles, though he couldn't have been more than 40 years old. He was shorter than Charles but seemed to be of a more athletic stature than the other doctors, as his ill-fitting plaid dress shirt and pants revealed. Most surprisingly of all, when it came time for Margaret to shake his hand, he instead took her hand and lifted it to his lips.</p><p>Charles rolled his eyes at the interaction and yet stifled any further response by promptly pulling a folded document out of his pocket and scrutinizing it as Dr. O'Rourke finally lowered her hand, plunging the introductions into awkwardness.</p><p>Finally, the group disbanded, and Margaret followed Charles back to his office.</p><p>"I suppose I should speak to the secretary about also meeting the nursing staff," Margaret said, her face slightly pinker than before. "They'll tell me when my first day will be."</p><p>"Well, please let me know what they say," Charles replied. "This afternoon I shall be assigning cases for the remainder of the week and… I would like to be your first."</p><p>The coy little smile on Margaret's lips made Charles acutely aware of how his statement had been perceived by her. In spite of the clear suggestiveness of what he'd said, he did not attempt to rephrase.</p><p>Wait—did Margaret just wink at him? He nearly choked on his saliva.</p><p>"I would like that too."</p><hr/><p>"Good morning!" Margaret cheerily exclaimed, opening the door to her chambers after Charles had emerged from his own bedroom dressed for work, briefcase in hand. It was now Wednesday and she'd since changed into her work outfit after officially accepting the position at the hospital yesterday. Today would be her first day.</p><p>Charles couldn't help but flinch at the unexpected voice at this hour of the day, and turned around to see Margaret leaning against her doorjamb.</p><p>"I didn't realize we'd be leaving at the same time," she added. "Would you like to ride together to work?" she said.</p><p>The look he gave her in return, a look of utter disbelief, made it obvious what he felt about her suggestion.</p><p>"Ha—well, I can't say I didn't try," she said, shrugging. "Anyway, the end of the month is only three days from now, and then I will be beginning the lease on an apartment I found. I'm only going to be here for two more nights. So the opportunity to ride to work with <em>yours truly</em> will be gone."</p><p>"You found an apartment?" he said, gaping at her. "Where? Why didn't you mention this last night?"</p><p>"At dinner with you and your family? No, thank you," she said, shaking her head.</p><p>"Yes, but after that," he said. "Did we not speak for several minutes after the meal was over?"</p><p>"Yeah, about the food and not much else." Now she looked confused. "Where exactly are you going with this? Hell, I only just paid the deposit yesterday afternoon. Anyway, I'm going to be living in South Boston."</p><p>"You chose <em>Southie</em>?" he retorted distastefully. "Did I not expressly recommend four neighborhoods that were, in fact, <em>not </em>Southie?"</p><p>"I'll fit in just fine there," Margaret replied. "It's very Irish."</p><p>"I am well-aware of the ethnos of South Boston," Charles said, rolling his eyes. "It's up to you, Margaret. Might I remind you—it's very… blue-collar."</p><p>"My kind of people," she said, with a big smile, wrapping her arms around herself.</p><p>"Right," he muttered, disconcerted by the remark. So she had chosen her side—which notably did <em>not</em> involve him and his upper-crust background. "Well, I must be going now," he added, attempting a half-hearted smile and little bow of the head. "I wish you a very successful first day."</p><p>With that, he turned away from her with an awkward little wave and prepared to head down the hallway towards the stairs.</p><p>"Really," she remarked bitterly. "after all we've been through, that's all you're gonna say to me?"</p><p>He turned around now, a confused look on his face.</p><p>"I have, in fact, scheduled myself to be the physician of record in two surgeries this week based on your feedback from the nursing staff," he replied, grimacing at the self-control he had to employ. "I hope to see you there, Margaret."</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0023"><h2>23. Heaven</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Charles entered the O.R., having scrubbed for his designated 7.5 minutes. He'd began to pull his surgical gown over his arms, preparing for it to be fastened in the back. His gloves were lying on the tray along with his surgical mask. He could see the surgical tools laid out under the bright lights, the metal glistening, the handles exactly parallel.</p><p>It was then that a pair of hands pulled his gown taut behind him, fastening it in place with Velcro. He knew those hands; those were not the hands of Nurse Hays or Nurse Brown or some silly nurse possibly hired for her looks and nothing more. Those were the hands of Margaret.</p><p>Once his gown had been fastened, Charles turned to look behind him then. There was Margaret Houlihan, already clad in her surgical gown, a cap covering her blonde hair, a mask hiding her expression. Clad entirely in bright white, she looked like an angel. He beamed at her then, his entire face transforming at the sight of her. She was <em>his</em> nurse now—not Pierce's, not Potter's, not Hunnicutt's. He would have to ensure that he booked many surgeries in his schedule so she would remain his.</p><p>After gloving and masking, Charles turned to look at his patient, a young woman presenting with coarctation of the aorta, the repair of which would take many hours, involving both a resection and an end-to-end anastomosis. The patient already been prepped and was currently unconscious, positioned carefully on the operating table, a sodium thiopental drip maintaining the anesthesia. Now he could sense Margaret's presence beside him but no accompanying smell of perfume. Had she heeded his words about her fragrance? Or was it merely because the temperature of this O.R. was controlled and thus did not need masking?</p><p>He could not help but thank the heavens that Dr. Jackson or some other surgeon did not feel the need to assist today. Certainly there were other important people assisting in the O.R.: the anesthesiologist and the circulating nurse, for example, but he took no notice of them.</p><p>"Scalpel."</p><p>"Scalpel," Margaret repeated, and instantaneously the scalpel was in his hand, ready to begin opening.</p><p>The blade ran through the flesh effortlessly, sinking into the underlying tissue and creating a smooth line down the woman's chest.</p><p>"Retractor."</p><p>Though he'd hadn't specified a rib spreader, Margaret had handed him just that, a Finochietto retractor. He smiled behind his mask; it was exactly what he'd needed.</p><p>As the surgery progressed, Charles could not help but take in the view of his and Margaret's bloodied gloves working in concert to retract the tissue around the coarctation, the delicate movements of the surgical tools: the retractors faithfully maintaining his open field, Margaret's forceps pulling back delicate connective tissue, hemostats applied carefully to reduce blood loss. At the first sign of hemorrhage, Margaret was there with suction to remove the gathering fluids, skillfully positioning sponges to maintain access and soak up excess blood and interstitial fluid.</p><p>His larger hands and her smaller hands seemed to belong to one individual as they worked together for a common purpose in this patient's chest cavity. Unlike his previous surgeries at Boston Mercy, he was calm and collected, his mind at ease as he observed the deliberate actions of the four hands, warmth radiating from Margaret's body as she stood beside him.</p><p>Surely heaven was not an operating room, but right now was about as close as he'd ever felt to achieving a state of utter contentment. He was Chief of Thoracic Surgery in Boston, with the best nurse he had ever known having happily chosen to work beside him. It was almost a shame that the surgery was proceeding so smoothly, namely because it would be finished sooner and he would have to wait until his next scheduled procedure on Friday for the next visit to paradise.</p><p>Before he could even ask for suction on a minor seepage of blood, Margaret's hands had brought the suction device to the area of tissue and had again teased away some fascia with a pair of forceps, revealing the nearly complete resection.</p><p>Now he was to draw the other end of the aorta together and complete the end-to-end anastomosis. Margaret had already applied more sponges and retraction to expose the other end, shifting a hemostat slightly to allow better access to the descending aorta. For a moment, Charles shut his eyes in ecstasy; this was exactly what surgery should be. Margaret understood him perhaps better than he understood himself. If every future procedure could proceed in this manner, he would gladly forgo the other responsibilities of chief surgeon and commit himself to performing multiple surgeries a week. And yet, he had to remain chief surgeon and suffer through the paperwork, because in doing so, he would possess the power to assign himself to particular lengthy and complex cases.</p><p>"Beautiful job, Dr. Winchester," Margaret said smilingly, after the resection and anastomosis had been completed, several minutes after he'd begun to close.</p><p>"Please, Margaret," he murmured quietly, "call me Charles. Everyone else does around here."</p><p>"Of course… Charles," she replied, her voice giving him goosebumps. She moved closer to him now, her voice not much louder than a whisper. "I'm glad you were my first."</p><p>He shut his eyes for a moment, feeling momentarily speechless. Was she aware of how much her presence meant to him? How could he maintain appropriate emotional distance with her, when her very existence brought him such pleasure, such joy? He swallowed audibly at her reply, proceeding to suture each layer of the chest wall with painstaking care. Surely he would be assigning himself now to the most complicated of procedures to ensure the maximal amount of time was spent in the O.R. with Margaret. And yet, he didn't feel overwhelmed with this information; he felt invigorated. This was a new beginning, a continuation of the best aspects of his tenure in Korea.</p><hr/><p>Charles sat in the hospital cafeteria for lunch, absentmindedly chewing on some Salisbury steak as he gazed at a newly published article on practical applications for the new heart-lung machine. If Boston Mercy could develop this kind of machine, the department of thoracic surgery would be able to perform many more cardiac procedures in particular, like the closure of atrial septal defects and heart valve repair.</p><p>Just thinking about his next surgical procedures he would be performing energized him. It was as if the sorrowful, insecure man of the last few weeks had been extracted from him with Margaret's warm embrace, replaced with a man brimming with confidence and renewed passion for his work.</p><p>Never again would he skip meals or drink in excess. He had to be at his best, not only for surgery but for Margaret. Perhaps his colleagues Daniel and Clyde could accept the whims of a self-pitying masochist, but not Margaret. And it was for this reason that he found himself thinking of his sister Honoria, who had instigated all of this.</p><p>He would have to ensure that he properly bring up the subject with his sister. Once Margaret had moved to her apartment, he would be free to address Honoria, firstly with what would be false anger, and once she was in the throes of remorse, he would then hug and perhaps even kiss her!</p><p>"Is this seat taken?" a voice asked, and Charles's head jerked up to see Margaret Houlihan looming above him, a gentle smile on her face. In her hands she held a tray with the same sorts of food he had; Salisbury steak, some mixed vegetables, and a beverage cup. Without waiting for him to reply, she sat down across from him, studying his change of expression.</p><p>He'd gone from a look of surprise to one of anxiety, by the obvious gulp she heard from him as she put her tray on the table. Of course, he and Margaret had often sat together in the mess tent at the 4077th—the difference was, the table was far smaller and no one else would be joining them.</p><p>"Amazing job in there today. I forgot how much I love watching you work," she said, grinning.</p><p>"Thank you, Margaret," he replied curtly, eyes quickly scanning the room for other thoracic surgeons.</p><p>"I can honestly say I don't think the 4077th repaired one coarctation; can you?"</p><p>"You would be correct in your assumption. Such an arterial defect would have rendered those men unfit for combat."</p><p>"It's incredible how you're able to adapt to a completely different set of surgeries, after spending two years doing meatball surgery."</p><p>"You forget that I was <em>trained</em> in this, Margaret, at one of the best hospitals in New England, and with such training, these procedures are second nature to me, much like… skateboarding."</p><p>"Wait," Margaret said, holding a hand up to halt his speech, "are you saying you skateboard?"</p><p>"Not anymore, of course, but in my youth I could even perform simple tricks. In fact, I made one myself out of a plank of wood with two pairs of wheels secured to the bottom. My father seemed to be accepting of that particular pastime, arguing that it was far less likely to result in harm to my hands."</p><p>"Wow, so your father had decided you'd be a surgeon when you were a child?"</p><p>"I imagine it was more a matter of seeing the writing on the wall. While other children were playing with slingshots and pogo sticks, I was dissecting frogs and putting them back together."</p><p>"I didn't take you to be a murderer of frogs," Margaret replied with a look of surprise. "I guess there's a lot I don't know about you."</p><p>"I didn't <em>murder</em> them, Margaret," he began, "Most of them had been struck by cars on the cobblestone during rainy nights. They aren't the most intelligent life form, to be sure."</p><p>Now Margaret had begun to eat, and he watched her carefully. No more was she clad in the white gown of surgery and yet she was not wearing drab Army greens. Would they eat lunch like this every day? Surely something as innocent as getting lunch together would not be frowned upon—would it?</p><p>"So, Margaret, are you finding yourself settling in alright?" Charles managed to ask, keeping his face devoid of emotion.</p><p>"I sure am!" she immediately replied, some food still in her mouth as she spoke. "Everyone is being so nice to me. The O.R.s here are laid out so well, it's hard to believe we were even able to function at the 4077th! I never thought I'd be so excited to be settling down for the first time in my life. Like really settling down, you know?"</p><p>"Where all did you live, growing up?"</p><p>"Well, let's see—Fort Benning, for one. That's in Georgia. Ford Ord was next, in California. Fort Bliss in Texas."</p><p>"My, so this crisp northern climate must seem—foreign to you," he remarked.</p><p>"Not so much, being as I lived in New Jersey for a couple of years—Forts Dix and Wilmer, to be precise."</p><p>"I can assure you; New Jersey and Massachusetts are nothing alike," Charles said with a chuckle, "New Jersey being the blight of the Eastern Seaboard."</p><p>"Ehh, it wasn't so bad," Margaret replied with a shrug.</p><p>"Just you wait, Margaret. Boston will put all your forts to shame."</p><p>An uncomfortable silence fell between them as they chewed their food.</p><p>"Do you, uh, happen to have any more procedures today?" Charles eventually asked her.</p><p>"I do," she said, almost giddy. "At 1400 hours, a lobectomy with Clyde."</p><p>So Margaret and the ginger surgeon were already on a first-name basis. Had the two of them spoken at length after that awkward introduction in which Dr. O'Rourke had taken the time to kiss Margaret's hand? Not to mention Clyde's joke in the afternoon meeting asking if the new nurse was good-looking. Charles was barely able to suppress the look of discomfort that materialized at the knowledge that it had taken him weeks to be on a first-name basis with his colleagues, and Margaret was already there in a single day. Quickly he attempted a smile to cover his obvious discomfort, hoping Margaret didn't notice.</p><p>"Well, I wish you the best of success in your endeavor," he muttered, the words tasting sour in his mouth.</p><hr/><p>Charles sat in his office until five in the evening, wondering if the lobectomy that Margaret and Clyde had been assigned to had been completed. Would it look odd for him to perhaps crack his door open, to hear for the sound of the approaching redhead surgeon? Clyde was not shy nor was he quiet, and he'd certainly hear his colleague arriving back to his office upon the completion of the procedure.</p><p>The tall surgeon stood up haltingly, heading for his door in his attempt to spy on the outcome of the surgery. He certainly hoped everything would go smoothly, but he also couldn't help but feel envious that Margaret would be shared with the other men in his department. Unlike him, Margaret was no stranger to romance with not only generals but also with her coworkers—he'd heard of her many exploits with Frank Burns, and of course, the image of Hawkeye Pierce and her kissing that final day was permanently burned into his retinas. Would she follow his lead and obey the Stateside rules on acceptable behavior in the workplace? Or would she seek out a romance with one of his surgeons?</p><p>He sat back down in his chair, his guts churning. He'd be so certain that having Margaret in his department would be the best arrangement for his future peace of mind, but now he wasn't so sure.</p><hr/><p>"Dr. Winchester—oh, I'm sorry—<em>Charles</em>."</p><p>A couple of knocks followed the male voice that called out his name.</p><p>Charles looked up from the requisition form on his desk, his eyes widening at the sight of Clyde O'Rourke, his flame-red hair still covered by his surgical cap. In attempting to focus on the forms in front of him, Charles had forgotten that he'd left his office door slightly ajar.</p><p>"I just finished surgery with our new nurse Margaret," he said with a smile. "I just wanted to say, Sir—wowee, you weren't kidding about her skills. She is really, <em>really</em> good. I think she's spoiled me for the rest of the nurses."</p><p>"Ha," Charles spat humorlessly. "She<em> is</em> quite extraordinary, isn't she."</p><p>Clyde looked positively starry-eyed behind his tortoiseshell glasses.</p><p>"She sure is, Sir. The whole package."</p><p>Charles frowned deeply at the comment.</p><p>"I <em>do</em> presume you are familiar with hospital policy on workplace relationships," Charles replied, cocking an eyebrow.</p><p>Now Clyde was squinting at him.</p><p>"Wait—you mean, she's not with <em>you</em>?"</p><p>"Course not," Charles immediately replied, his voice flat. "As I stated on Monday in response to your inquiry, she is a former colleague of mine."</p><p>"Right! That does make sense," Clyde said, smiling sheepishly. "I'm so sorry to bother you, Sir. I just stopped by to thank you for bringing her here; that's all!"</p><p>Now Clyde pulled off his white cap and ran a hand through his thick red hair, taking a step out of the office. "Have a good evening, Sir!"</p><p>"You as well," Charles replied, acutely aware of his baldness now, his stomach hollow with despair. And so it had begun.</p><hr/><p>As soon as Dr. O'Rourke left his office, Charles searched through his file cabinets for the Boston Mercy Hospital employee policy manual. It was only then that he realized it was in fact <em>he</em> who was uninformed—the manual's wording on the nature of workplace relationships was ambiguous at best, mainly discouraging romantic forays between supervisors and subordinates as well as the pursuit of adulterous romances. And yet, it appeared as if the hospital's policy did not openly condemn romances between equals or those in different hierarchies. So what exactly had he suggested to Clyde O'Rourke—that he in fact should <em>pursue</em> Margaret?</p><p>Now he had developed a rather throbbing headache, which gradually worsened throughout the day until he left for home, rendering him unable to sign even one more requisition form.</p>
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<a name="section0024"><h2>24. Being Frank</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"Tell us what you did today, Charles."</p><p>Charles managed to stifle a wince as his father officially began the dinner conversation over a tureen of hot creamy lobster bisque at 7:15 sharp. Margaret sat to one side of him at the long table, Honoria on the other. His mother sat across the table from them and his father at the head of the table.</p><p>"Well, as you may be aware, Margaret has taken a job as a nurse in the department of thoracic surgery at Boston Mercy. Today she—"</p><p>"What<em> you</em> did today, Charles," his father interrupted. "She will get her time to speak."</p><p>"I was just getting to that," Charles muttered, stifling his irritation at the almost mechanical way conversations proceeded between him and his father. "As I was saying, as today was Margaret's first day, she was assigned to work with me on a coarctation case—"</p><p>"W-what's that?" Honoria blurted.</p><p>"A congenital narrowing of the aorta," Charles said, turning to his sister with a smile. "It requires not only a delicate resection but an end-to-end anastomosis to repair. The surgery was a success and I expect the patient's symptoms to resolve quickly."</p><p>After his explanation to his sister, Charles faced forward once again, dipping his soup spoon into the bisque and saying nothing more.</p><p>Now the table had fallen silent, the highlights of Charles's day having been summarized well before the salad had arrived. When it came time for Margaret to speak, she couldn't help but exchange a look of anxiety with Charles. Would his father cut her off for repeating a story similar to Charles's?</p><p>"So as Charles said, today was my first day," she began carefully, making eye contact with each of the Winchesters. "I performed my first surgery with Charles in the morning and then in the afternoon I worked with another surgeon on a lobectomy."</p><p>Afterwards, Margaret fell silent, picking her soup spoon back up and scooping up one last spoonful of the thick bisque.</p><p>"And how did <em>that </em>go, pray tell?" Charles asked. Now Margaret glanced over at him, taken aback by the very questioning nature of the Winchester dinner table tonight. She had eaten with them previously but the questions were certainly more pointed and numerous today.</p><p>"It went very well. Clyde is a very competent surgeon."</p><p>"I see," Charles said, now ignoring his other family at the table as he continued to face Margaret, his hackles rising at the mention of his first name again. "Is he chatty? A jokester? Or does he behave appropriately in the O.R.?"</p><p>Margaret's eyes momentarily widened at the question. Was Charles… jealous?</p><p>"He<em> is</em> a bit of a jokester, though not as seasoned as Pierce," she admitted. "He certainly tries, though."</p><p>"And were his jokes… appropriate? I certainly wouldn't want you to be uncomfortable—"</p><p>"He was the perfect gentleman, if that's what you're asking," she quickly replied, having forgotten about the three silent figures around them. Margaret leaned back in her chair, perturbed by Charles's disapproving gaze. "Anyway, I think I've gone on long enough."</p><p>Now Margaret looked around the table to see Honoria watching their exchange with great interest. Charles's mother and father were looking alternately at each other and toward the kitchen to await the third course. And just like that, the previous awkward silences had been vanquished by the sheer tension of this last exchange.</p><hr/><p>"Mind if I join you?"</p><p>Charles looked up from his table in the Boston Mercy cafeteria to see Margaret Houlihan standing above him with her tray. He hadn't assigned himself to any cases today, and had been curious about Margaret's day. Now he could ask her directly. He gave her a polite smile and gestured to the empty seat across from him.</p><p>"Please."</p><p>"Thanks, Charles," she said, sitting down. "How has your day been? I take it you didn't have any surgeries today."</p><p>"You are correct in your assumption. I've assigned myself to an aneurysm repair tomorrow, so perhaps we will work together then. What cases did you do today?"</p><p>"I worked on an aneurysm repair with Dr. Baker today and then after lunch, I have a diaphragmatic hernia repair with Clyde."</p><p>Charles felt a wave of anxiety of the level of familiarity between Margaret and Clyde O'Rourke. She'd called Dr. Baker by his professional title but not the well-built Irishman who had apparently been given his blessing to date Margaret. He could only sigh and attempt to think of a reasonable reply.</p><p>"Ah, and did your case with Dr. Baker go well?"</p><p>"There was a bit more bleeding than normal as he finished, and Dr. Baker ended up needing to reopen, where he found the most miniscule of leaks from a single suture. Anyway, he definitely isn't used to taking suggestions from a woman, but he handled it well enough." Now she leaned forward, her voice a harsh whisper. "I just can't get over how damn <em>short</em> he is!"</p><p>"Yes, well you're certainly not used to that, working with Pierce, Hunnicutt, and me," Charles commented. "Perhaps Colonel Potter."</p><p>"Dr. Baker's even shorter than <em>him</em>, if you can believe it. My back is killing me after having to lean so far down to work on his patient. I didn't even know the operating room table could be adjusted so low!"</p><p>Charles finished chewing his carrots to ask his next question, keeping his face as unaffected as possible in spite of his steadily increasing blood pressure.</p><p>"Are you looking forward to the hernia repair later?"</p><p>"Yes, I am," Margaret replied, forking some mashed potatoes into her mouth.</p><p>Now Charles leaned across the table, his voice low, eyes scanning the room warily as he spoke.</p><p>"You must inform me immediately if Dr. O'Rourke makes you uncomfortable; do you understand?"</p><p>"Is there something you aren't telling me about him?" she whispered, a concerned look on her face. "Like what, is he some kind of pervert?"</p><p>Now Charles's eyes lit up with interest as he replied.</p><p>"Is he giving you that impression? As his superior, I cannot tolerate any—"</p><p>"Of course not," she said matter-of-factly. "He's a nice enough sort. His jokes are a little punny for my taste, but he means well."</p><p>"Well, if anything should change, you be sure to let me know," he murmured conspiratorially.</p><p>"Right," Margaret said, attempting to read his expression, which seemed to be a mix of concern and deceit. Was Charles trying to subtly inform her that something was amiss with Dr. Clyde O'Rourke? Or was this entire exchange borne out of jealousy? It would not do to continue gossiping about a surgeon while in the hospital. She would have to bring it up directly with Charles, but did not have much more time to do so outside of work; she would only be remaining at the Winchester home for one more night before her lease officially began on her apartment in South Boston.</p><hr/><p>Having only finished up his shower a mere five minutes before, the knock on his bedroom door startled Charles and he quietly crept into his main bedroom from the bathroom to check on the status of his door. The knock was far too loud to be Honoria's and yet Margaret wouldn't dare enter his chambers… would she?</p><p>His skin and hair still wet from his shower, Charles's eyes found their quarry, the floor in front of his door. Where the hell was his doorstop?!</p><p>"Charles, I know you're in there," Margaret called out now, her voice unmistakably stern. He gulped. Now he could feel gooseflesh on his bare skin, and tiptoed back toward the bathroom.</p><p>"I'm not decent," he called out, peering down at the towel wrapped around his waist, his voice coming out far less confident than he would have preferred. Now, what in the world was this all about? He knew that this was Margaret's final night in the Winchester household. As soon as her lease began, she'd told him, she would be moving her army cot into the apartment and staying there from then on. He'd not encouraged her to stay until she could purchase more appropriate furniture; they were, after all, colleagues now.</p><p>"You can say that again!" Margaret shot back, throwing open his bedroom door. Charles's jaw dropped now as he stood at the threshold of his master bath clad only in a towel, gaping at her as she entered his room and immediately shut the door behind her. What was she going to do?</p><p>"Can this not wait, Margaret?!" Charles exclaimed, both of his hands clutching his towel tightly at the waist. "I told you I wasn't decent!" he cried. "What in the world's come over you?!"</p><p>"Well, this can't wait," Margaret replied, walking purposefully towards him now, seemingly ignoring his state of undress. "Tonight is my last night here and I'm not sure when I'll get a chance to talk to you again outside of work."</p><p>For a moment, his breath caught in his throat. Was she angry at him, or was there <em>another</em> reason for her barging into his bedroom after he'd made it clear that he was not dressed appropriately? His expression alternated between sheepishness and dread as he attempted to read her face. What would he do if she continued to approach? What would he do if she pushed him onto his bed?</p><p>"I want you to be frank with me," Margaret said in a low, threatening voice, her hands moving to her hips.</p><p>"F-frank?" he sputtered, eyes widening. <em>As in, the infamous Frank Burns?</em> <em>Oh, Lord, is this actually going to happen tonight?</em></p><p>Now Margaret looked flustered.</p><p>"<em>Little</em> f," she muttered, briefly rolling her eyes.</p><p>So her entering his room was notably <em>not </em>in regards to some kind of irresistible romantic passion on her part. A baffling combination of disappointment and relief flooded through his guts.</p><p>"I would be glad to do so… <em>after</em> I am suitably clothed, of course," Charles stated, heading for his bureau to pull out a set of pajamas. "This," he said, gesturing to him and then to her as he raised his eyebrows, "is highly inappropriate, Margaret."</p><p>"Funny that <em>you</em> claim to be the authority on what's appropriate," she shot back, crossing her arms.</p><p>Now he was confused, and alternately peered at her and at the pajama shirt he'd just pulled out of his bureau.</p><p>"What are you saying?"</p><p>"Tell me, is it <em>appropriate</em> to try to turn me against the other surgeons?"</p><p>"Surely you jest," Charles retorted, forcing a chuckle to follow as he slipped his arm into the button-up pajama shirt. "I have done nothing of the sort."</p><p>"Are you kidding me?! Both last night at dinner and today at lunch, you tried to make me believe that Clyde is some kind of pervert!"</p><p>Charles blinked and peered at her matter-of-factly.</p><p>"How do you know he's not?"</p><p>"See—that's just it!" she raged, throwing up her arms. "You forget, I have to <em>work</em> with these people, side by side, every day! What do you have against him, anyway? That he kissed my hand that first day? I don't get it!"</p><p>"I've absolutely nothing against him," Charles replied, swallowing audibly. "I just want to make sure you are… comfortable."</p><p>"With you and you alone, right?"</p><p>Now Charles was glaring at her, both of their tempers raging simultaneously.</p><p>"What exactly are you implying?!" Charles fumed, enunciating each syllable crisply.</p><p>"I am implying that you've been sending me mixed messages ever since I got here. What the hell do you want from me, anyway? I wish you'd just spit it out already, so I know what you think <em>this</em> is!" she exclaimed, gesturing at herself and Charles.</p><p>He could only wince now, thinking of the multiple times he'd crossed the line with Margaret, either in his own mind or in something he'd said that could have been construed as suggestive. And yet, he'd felt them all the same. How could he reconcile such conflicting feelings in his mind? It was wrong of him to expect so much of Margaret: she was to be his nurse and nothing more, but apparently, she was also prohibited in engaging in friendships with other opposite-sex members of his department.</p><p>Charles was finally able to slip the pajama shirt on and stared down at the ground as he buttoned it all the way to his chin, feeling vulnerable in more ways than one. His bath towel still remained the only object covering his lower half.</p><p>"I am sorry for the mixed messages," Charles murmured, bowing his head now. "It was not my intention to confuse you."</p><p>Margaret could only blink in reply at the realization that he was admitting to sending mixed messages. And yet, his ambiguous answer did not make his intentions any clearer.</p><p>"Well, you're still at it!" she shot back. "You have been disparaging Clyde to me at every chance you get, but then he told me today what you said to him. I can't even wrap my mind around what game you're playing here."</p><p><em>That little weasel. </em>How was it possible that his newfound loathing for the little twerp had exponentially increased in the span of a single conversation? So Clyde and Margaret were gossiping like the members of some high school clique as they removed parts of lung. He gritted his teeth at the thought of that mental image.</p><p>"And what <em>did</em> I say to him, hmm?" Charles replied, seething.</p><p>"Apparently, you reminded him of the relative lack of policy on workplace relationships, after he'd come to tell you about me. Now, what the hell was <em>that</em> about?"</p><p>"Lack of?" he said, blinking with bewilderment. The policy was certainly weaker than he'd predicted, but he wouldn't say there was <em>no</em> policy.</p><p>"Have you not read the manual?" she shot back. "It merely <em>suggests</em> that you not mess around with your boss or your married coworkers. I can't decide if you hate the man or if you want me to date him!"</p><p>"Neither of those is valid; I assure you," Charles quickly backpedaled.</p><p>"So you <em>weren't</em> suggesting he pursue me."</p><p>"Of course not. What do you take me for?"</p><p>"Well, what if he <em>does</em> pursue me in thinking you gave him your blessing?"</p><p>"My statement was unfortunately borne of ignorance for hospital policy. How was I to know just how far Boston Mercy lurks beneath the standards of Massachusetts General?"</p><p>"I guess I should apologize again, then, right? Because it's all my fault that you now work here."</p><p>"Are you trying to drive me mad?!" Charles blurted now, his face ever-reddening. "Just so you are aware of what happened, that little… twerp came into my office all starry-eyed behind those ridiculous glasses of his, fawning all over your skills and expertise, even claiming you were the whole package! I merely suggested that he review the policy on workplace relationships. A completely innocent exchange."</p><p>"He really said all that?" Margaret murmured.</p><p>Now Margaret was glancing off into space, seemingly deep in thought. Charles grimaced as he looked at her now. <em>Shit</em>. He hadn't meant to reveal any of what O'Rourke had said, and sought to immediately redirect the woman who was so close to him and yet so far away.</p><p>"May I remind you, Margaret," he began, "that just because hospital policy does not dictate the appropriateness of workplace relationships, doesn't mean that you should throw yourself into one."</p><p>"Meaning…?"</p><p>"Meaning I am well-aware of your many… trysts. The married Frank Burns. The lecher Hawkeye Pierce. That AWOL soldier Jack Scully. Not to mention the U.N. delegate—"</p><p>"How <em>dare</em> you judge me, buster!" Margaret raged, her face now bright red, shaking her finger in his face. "I'm not some little French floozy or Korean hooker—I am a skilled surgical nurse who <em>earned</em> the rank of Major and the right to be called head nurse of the 4077th M.A.S.H.!"</p><p>Charles was taken aback at Margaret's casual mentioning of his own brief flings in Korea, and his mouth spoke before his mind could understand that he was digging himself further into a hole.</p><p>"At least I didn't seek to <em>gain</em> from my attempts at relationships; you, on the other hand, have never explained your fascination with surgeons, not to mention army generals," he shot back mockingly, leveling his face with hers.</p><p>"You know what?" she snapped. "Maybe if you tried to actually <em>let </em>someone into your life rather than trying to control them from afar, you wouldn't be such a miserable sack of—"</p><p>"That's quite enough, Margaret," Charles cut in, his breaths coming in pants now, blinking with disbelief at how badly this conversation had gone.</p><p>"You're right; it <em>is</em> quite enough," Margaret replied.</p><p>Charles was left speechless as she promptly turned on her heel and stomped out of the room, shutting the door behind her. What exactly had she meant by all that?</p>
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<a name="section0025"><h2>25. Gone With The Wind</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Charles stood in the O.R. on Friday morning, having scrubbed for the designated time, his arms in the surgical gown, waiting for his nurse to fasten it in back.</p><p>A pair of hands quickly tugged the back of his gown together, velcroing the edges in place. The speed and force that this yet unknown nurse was applying to his garment made it clear who was standing behind him now and he felt a chill run through him.</p><p>"Turn around so I can glove you," Margaret remarked, her voice laced with impatience.</p><p>Head bowed, he felt a lump in his throat as he turned to face Margaret and the shame of last evening's conversation.</p><p>"There you go," she said, expertly sliding the gloves on. Now he took his place at his patient's side, the skin prepped and drapes positioned perfectly, the lights so bright that they hurt his eyes. He could sense Margaret now moving beside him, the metal tray with the instruments at her side.</p><p>"Scalpel."</p><p>"Scalpel," she said immediately, handing him the tool.</p><p>"Suction—"</p><p>"Suction."</p><p>He looked over at Margaret now, her eyebrows angled downwards in a frown. All the while, she kept her eyes locked on the surgical field.</p><p>What had happened to his starry-eyed angel, the woman who'd by her very presence made his life worth living? Who was this bitter lookalike who'd replaced her, an aloof woman with a penchant for myopic Irishmen and blue-collar neighborhoods, a woman who'd barged in on him while he was barely dressed just to berate him? This was not the same woman with whom he'd fallen asleep along the esplanade, the woman he'd been almost compelled to kiss mere days ago. Had he lost Margaret Houlihan in the span of a single conversation? He had to address what had happened, and fast.</p><p>"Margaret, I sense some unresolved—"</p><p>"Now is not the time nor place," Margaret interrupted, handing him the retractor just as soon as it occurred to him that he needed it.</p><p>"Lunch then?" he proposed.</p><p>"I have other plans for lunch," she spat, taking the retractor from him and passing the forceps to him just as they were needed.</p><p>"A picnic?" he murmured, trying to make eye contact with her but failing miserably. "Or are you—"</p><p>"Must we talk about this now?" she said, sighing as she briefly looked over at the anesthesiologist, who was trying his best to ignore them. "Here's your hemostat."</p><p>Charles peered down into the chest of his patient to see that there was a bleeder now in dire need of a clamp, and he swiftly applied the hemostat.</p><hr/><p>"I hope you're not preparing to close," Margaret snapped, just after Charles had used a tiny pair of scissors to cut the end of the knot he'd placed, followed by his removal of several of the retractors holding the field open.</p><p>Charles frowned at the nurse now, his gown covered in blood. It had been a difficult procedure, its challenging nature compounded by the fact that Margaret, though just as efficient and skilled as ever, was being extremely terse and taciturn with him. And now she was suggesting that he not close?!</p><p>"Why the hell not?" he blurted. "Has the silence not gone on long enough?"</p><p>"Because your sutures are crooked," she replied behind her mask. "Those last four you put in won't hold for long; I'm sure of it."</p><p>"Bite your tongue, Margaret," he snapped back. "I have repaired aneurysms in <em>children</em>; have you ever sutured the brachiocephalic artery of an 8-year-old? This is a trifle."</p><p>"And yet, your sutures are still as crooked as a politician. Just take a look—you'll see what I mean."</p><p>"Nonsense," he muttered, removing another retractor.</p><p>"Are you kidding me right now?" she blurted. "You know damn well I speak my mind—why did you encourage me to work here?"</p><p>"What I need are your <em>hands</em>, Margaret. I need you to anticipate my next instrument, when retraction or suction is needed, without my explicit instruction—"</p><p>"Is that so? Fine, then," Margaret said coldly. "…but only after you recheck your sutures."</p><hr/><p>Charles's eyes widened at the particularly poor job he'd done on the sutures lining the anterior border of the grafted artery. Margaret was correct; those sutures would not hold for long; in fact, they may very well have given away this very night, leading to death by massive internal hemorrhage.</p><p>And yet, was he not driven to distraction by her new aloofness, thus causing him to make such an error? He couldn't decide if he should be angrier with her or with himself for this mistake. Sweat dripped down his forehead into his eyebrows and he blinked away the sting of it as he frowned at his poor work.</p><p>Fortunately, Margaret said nothing as she stood beside him, and he'd never been more thankful for a lack of 'I told you so.' Frankly, he was mortified by his performance and yet, before he'd even requested it, Margaret had already begun reapplying the retractors to open the field again.</p><p>All he could do now was give her a little nod of the head, and the room was rendered completely silent once again as the pair worked together to fix the error.</p><hr/><p>Charles sat in his office during lunch, frowning deeply. This was now the second time in a matter of weeks that he'd made a mistake in the O.R., compounded by the fact that he'd only performed a mere six surgeries since beginning at Boston Mercy.</p><p>Perhaps he should commit to his charge and leave Boston, as he told Margaret he would be doing at some point. In a new town, he would not be distracted by his family, cronyism, or Margaret. And yet, she'd only been in Boston for six days—in fact, she was beginning her apartment lease this very day—how could he even <em>think</em> such a thing? What was wrong with him?!</p><p>In encouraging Margaret to work in his department, he could only see the paradise that was their shared work, their hands moving together as she seemingly read his mind. He would never have predicted he'd be so… envious of her time spent with others. Last night she had alluded to his jealousy but had never outright accused him of it. Now he wished she had simply called him out for it and they could have worked through their difficulties.</p><p>Had he and Margaret not worked together for the better part of two years, with no major issues arising? Of course, they'd all been forced to remain at the 4077th all the while—perhaps he'd be handling himself differently if there were no other options for him.</p><p>Margaret had been absolutely in the right in telling him about the sutures. Regardless of his decision about Boston, he had to apologize for his behavior today in the O.R. Being as he knew she wouldn't be in the hospital cafeteria today, he would have to wait until he returned home in the evening to speak to her.</p><hr/><p>"What do you <em>mean</em>, she's gone?"</p><p>Honoria watched her brother pacing back and forth in the living room, hunched over, his hands in his pockets. Upon entering the Winchester home, he'd immediately proceeded to the second floor to find Margaret but had found the guest room empty.</p><p>"Sh-she came by around lunchtime and took her clothes. She said today was the start of her l-lease."</p><p>"Did she leave a number? An address?"</p><p>"N-no, she didn't."</p><p>"Why the hell not?" Charles cried, obviously stricken. Honoria was again worried for her brother. In a mere matter of days, Margaret Houlihan had helped Charles return to a more normal state of being, and now that she'd left without leaving her contact information, he could easily regress.</p><p>"I imagine it will take a couple of d-days for the utilities to be—"</p><p>"Was she still in the Buick?"</p><p>"Sh-she was. Why?"</p><p>"I may not be back for dinner," Charles murmured. "Thank you, Honoria."</p><hr/><p>The streets of South Boston were much grittier and plainer than Beacon Hill's stately cobblestone and historic gas lights lining beautiful redbrick sidewalks. Margaret had purposely chosen to live here, perhaps because of her Irish heritage, but more likely because of the cheaper rent in these parts. He drove his Bentley slowly along each block, searching for Margaret's rented white Buick Roadmaster, but it was nowhere to be found.</p><p>Was she already out and about in some other locale? Or was her car in a parking garage somewhere? It was no use; she clearly did not want to be found. By the time he'd decided to give up his search, it was already well past the Winchester evening meal. His stomach growled so loudly that he thought he'd run over some kind of animal in the street. Apparently, Margaret had managed to bring back some semblance of an appetite in him since her arrival, and he was currently famished.</p><p>Frowning, Charles began searching in earnest for a place to eat as he drove with deliberate slowness, and soon pulled in front of the only place he could find, an Irish pub with which he was vaguely familiar. After parking the car another block down the street, he sighed at his own lack of preparation for this solo meal. He hadn't bothered to change out of his work clothing, and was far overdressed for Southie. His Bentley was also notably out of place in this neighborhood. Could he do nothing to fit in? His <em>tie</em>—he quickly removed it from around his neck and placed it on the seat next to him, just before stepping out of the vehicle. A dusty, discarded fedora, his father's, sat in the back seat, and he snatched it from the seat and placed it on his head, pulling it low over his eyebrows.</p><hr/><p>"Just one," Charles indicated with a single finger at the hostess desk, as he was brought into a surprisingly expansive room with polished wooden floors, dim chandeliers, a well-stocked bar, and booths lining the walls on three sides. The pub was crowded, with many people seated at the bar and a couple at practically every table. Thankfully the din of the crowd seemed to drown out the light music that was playing in the background, some current pop tune that made him want to retch.</p><p>"Here's your seat, Sir," the hostess indicated, bringing him past the noisy bar to be seated by himself in a corner booth. Of course, now he was made more aware of the background music, but at least he didn't have to overhear all the amorous conversation around him.</p><p>"Thank you, Madam," he muttered, sighing as he sunk into the booth and removed his hat. He'd never eaten here before but had heard this place had good food, but would he be waiting forever to eat? The size of the crowd tonight seemed to suggest he would.</p><p>After ordering his meal, Charles thought of today's surgical department meeting he'd held just before leaving for home, one in which he'd scheduled cases for the beginning of next week. He would not easily forget how Clyde had looked at him then, his eyes wide behind his coke-bottle glasses, as he purposely assigned his and Clyde's procedures for the exact same time slot on Monday and Tuesday, to be performed simultaneously in two separate operating rooms. Little did Clyde know, but it was his method of seeing whom Margaret would choose. Of course, there was always the chance that Margaret had no say in which surgeon she would be working with each day, but he had convinced himself that this was a good test to see where her loyalties lie.</p><p>He sat for a time in the booth, waiting for his food, tapping his foot on the ground, and checking his wristwatch. Why had he chosen to eat at a restaurant tonight, and by himself, at that? Was he secretly hoping that Margaret would also find this venue and come to this sole bastion of sustenance within sight, starving from the moving process and an empty new kitchen? Or was he simply trying to delay the inquisition by his sister Honoria that awaited him the moment he arrived home?</p><p>It was then he saw the jukebox, tucked away off to the side of the bar. Charles made a face of distaste at the arch of colorful lights flashing red and green, beckoning sadistic fools to choose a song with which to torture the rest.</p><p>As soon as he'd noticed the presence of the jukebox, a happy couple climbed out of their booth and strode over to it, making eyes at each other all the while. He could only sigh and fidget uncomfortably, helpless to stop them from making his day all the more awful with the push of a button.</p><p><em>Ugh, Stardust</em>.</p><p>Now the couple was slow dancing in the middle of the expansive space in the center of the restaurant, and he could see other couples now standing up and making their way over to dance near the original couple. Apparently, inhibitions had been lowered enough by the generous supply of alcohol at this late of an hour that people were now comfortable with embarrassing themselves in public. If he'd not been waiting patiently for his food to arrive, he would have left the pub as soon as the very first sound emerged from that damn jukebox.</p><p>But then, something else caught his eye. A blonde woman entered the pub alone, standing for what seemed like forever in front of the hostess desk. She wore a monochromatic pantsuit, her hair pulled back off of her shoulders. Surely it wasn't Margaret—was it?</p>
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<a name="section0026"><h2>26. Near Miss</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Now the mystery blonde was being led to her table, just as Charles had been more than nearly half an hour ago. The hostess's body partly blocked his view of the woman as she was led past the bar, back towards the more sparsely populated booths on his side of the room. Before he could really know for sure that the woman wasn't Margaret, she had been given a seat in the far corner booth to one side of the bar.</p><p>His shoulders slumped now as the waiter finally brought over his Irish stew and fish-and-chips; he'd never know who the woman was. The only way he'd be able to see her now was if she'd decided to dance or play a song on the jukebox… or perhaps if <em>he</em> had to cross the restaurant for some reason. Where in the world was the restroom in this place? He leaned out of the booth, scanning the walls for an alcove or a sign, but he saw none.</p><p>Charles sighed, frowning at his food. He might as well eat and leave as was his original intention. Now "Stardust" was finished playing and someone had picked a Perry Como song, and he began shoveling the stew into his mouth, wanting to leave as soon as possible. Of course, he could not help but internalize some of the lyrics, something about too many stars and moons and love dying in the daylight and blooming at night. Well, love had died altogether for him, had died before it had even had a chance to be born.</p><p>Having finished his meal, Charles stood up abruptly, waving his arm to signal the nearest waitress. He quickly paid and placed his fedora low on his eyes, deciding to walk around the outskirts of the dancing group in the direction of the mystery blonde who'd just been seated down the row of booths.</p><p>Charles shoved his hands in his pockets and attempted to look as casual as possible, though he could feel sweat pooling under his armpits and his heart thudding in his chest. Slowly he turned his head now, to peek over at the corner booth—</p><p>"Charles?!"</p><p>"Margaret," he spat, freezing in place, his stomach clenching on his hastily-eaten food. So he'd found her.</p><p>"What the hell are you <em>doing</em> here?" she spat, looking up at him with a mix of suspicion and confusion in her eyes.</p><p>"I could ask you the same," he replied, squirming in spite of himself.</p><p>"I don't have to explain myself to you," she shot back. Charles looked utterly ashamed now, and lowered his head.</p><p>"You're right," he murmured, keeping his eyes on the ground. "My apologies, Margaret."</p><p>At Charles's contrite expression, Margaret softened her tone.</p><p>"I live around here now… but you already knew that." Suddenly her anger altogether dissipated and she looked up at him shrewdly, narrowing her eyes. "Wait… you came looking for me, didn't you?"</p><p>Now he could only gape at her, unable to formulate any sort of reply. This was all the answer that Margaret needed. When she spoke next, her voice was much softer, barely discernable over the strains of Nat King Cole's "Unforgettable."</p><p>"Why don't you sit down for a minute and we can talk?" she said, looking at her watch first and then out towards the growing crowd of dancing couples.</p><p>"I was just leaving," he muttered, awkwardly shifting from foot to foot as he pulled his hand from his pocket and checked his watch. When he'd begun his quest to track down Margaret, he'd had the entire conversation mapped out in his head, but upon entering the pub in his defeat, he'd let it fade.</p><p>"Please," she said, voice ever softer. "Just for a minute. I won't keep you."</p><hr/><p>"Why didn't you leave your address?" Charles asked as he and Margaret sat across from each other in the corner booth of the pub, the hurt still evident on his face by the events of the day. "What if you'd forgotten something and—"</p><p>"Well, we'll still see each other at work, won't we?" Margaret replied in a high-pitched voice, her eyes darting about anxiously as she glanced at her watch again.</p><p>"I suppose," he replied, swallowing but seemingly unaware of Margaret's own uneasiness. "And yet, I just don't understand why everything's suddenly become so… convoluted. That first day in the O.R. together was about as close to paradise as an O.R. could ever be."</p><p>"Wow—I didn't know the patient was that close to dying," she said with a little smile, then seeing the seriousness on his face, licked her lips and rendered her expression serious as well. "No, I know what you mean—it was perfect, like a well-oiled machine."</p><p>"It was more than that," Charles murmured, his earnest eyes now locked on hers. Margaret was taken aback by his intensity and broke the gaze early.</p><p>"Right, so we can't expect that every time," she replied, feeling flustered. "Obviously our argument from last night carried over into our work today. That was not professional and I can assure you that I won't do that again."</p><p>"It was <em>I</em> who was in the wrong, Margaret, both today and last night," he murmured. "And you were completely justified in pointing out my sutures, which would never have held. You've no reason to apologize for anything you did. I have behaved boorishly."</p><p>"Thank you, Charles. I appreciate that."</p><p>"I wished I could assure you that I won't do that again," Charles began with a sigh, "but I'm not entirely certain that I can."</p><p>Margaret blinked rapidly now, seemingly confused.</p><p>"What exactly do you mean?"</p><p>Swallowing, Charles reached across the table and placed his hand on hers. Margaret's eyes locked on his hand now and her mouth dropped open in surprise. Now he could tell her about his misdirected jealousy and hope that she would be understanding.</p><p>"What I'm trying to say, Margaret, is..."</p><p>"Shit," Margaret suddenly muttered, shutting her eyes momentarily. Charles was taken aback by the reply and began stammering.</p><p>"I—I, uh, beg your pardon?"</p><p>Margaret's eyes were wide now, focusing off somewhere at an angle behind him as she fidgeted in the booth. Charles turned his head to follow her gaze, realizing Margaret's focus was on the hostess stand which was situated in a small alcove extending from the far side of the large room. That bright orange mop of hair and big round glasses—it was none other than Clyde O'Rourke standing there at the hostess stand! Thankfully he wasn't currently looking towards their table—had he witnessed the two of them together?</p><p>Now Charles turned again to face Margaret and he could see now on her face that she was mortified, all the color drained from her already pale skin, her mouth opening and closing like a fish. His eyes immediately fell from her face and down to the table.</p><p>"Is that Dr. O'Rourke?" he muttered, defeated, already knowing the answer.</p><p>"It's not a date," Margaret blurted, rapidly shaking her head. "He just… lives in Southie as well and he wanted to introduce me to the area."</p><p>"I see," Charles muttered, face falling as he withdrew his hand from hers. He stood up, unable to hide the misery on his face. Wincing, he gave her a little bow of the head. "Goodnight, Margaret."</p><p>Charles didn't even wait for her reply before abruptly turning around and making his way through the dancing couples, his hand on his head, his fedora his only means of disguise. The tall surgeon pushed through the crowd now, keeping his head down, feeling both relief and rage as he watched Clyde turn away from him now, beginning to follow the hostess to Margaret's booth. As Charles reached the door of the pub, he turned around briefly to see Margaret standing up to greet Clyde. He'd made a fool out of himself and now he had to face an inquisition at home.</p><hr/><p>Charles sat in front of his house in his Bentley, grimacing at the Winchester house. How could he avoid Honoria and her pointed questions? Surely this weekend would be spent in its entirety at Boston Mercy, but tonight he was in real danger of being interrogated by his sister.</p><p>He removed his father's fedora, tossing it into the back of the vehicle yet again and frowning at the silent radio. It was almost ten in the evening and Honoria would still be awake, waiting for him. It was already bad enough that she'd pitied him enough to call Margaret in Tokyo, but now he could picture the nauseating sympathy on her face at the knowledge that Margaret had already moved on with a surgeon from her brother's own department, no less.</p><p>He frowned, hating that he was little more than an object of pity now, both to his sister and to Margaret. It was now time to snuff out his weakness completely and be the Major Charles Emerson Winchester III that had been invited to Tokyo General two years ago to demonstrate his surgical skills. Margaret had claimed she preferred the vulnerable Charles, but that hadn't even been enough to prevent her from meeting another man the very first Friday of her new job. Honoria would not see him break down again. Now that Margaret had rejected him, he would be focusing his energy on the restoration of the unflappable Major Ego.</p><hr/><p>She'd either chosen him or had been assigned to work with him for Monday's surgery. His back to the blonde nurse as she secured his surgical gown, Charles could only smile impishly at imagining the saddened Clyde O'Rourke in his complicated esophagus surgery next door.</p><p>Margaret watched Charles carefully as she gloved him, noticing his impeccable posture and the strange smirk that seemed to be painted on his face, thankfully soon hidden behind his surgical mask.</p><p>"Where were you all weekend?" she murmured to him, taking her place beside him in the center of the room to the side of their anesthetized patient. "I tried to call your house, but your sister said that you were—"</p><p>"Then you have your answer, Margaret," he quickly quipped. "Shall we commence then? Sodium pentothal doesn't grow on trees."</p><p>"Fine," she murmured, taken aback by his apathy, and turned to the instrument tray, awaiting his next request.</p><p>"Scalpel."</p><p>"Scalpel."</p><p>Though he kept his composure, Charles's heart was racing as Margaret reached toward him to apply suction to some leakage of pleural fluid. He could see he'd unnerved her with his behavior—her brows knitted, Margaret moved tentatively, handing each instrument to him with a strange hesitancy. It was an odd sensation; for the last couple of weeks, <em>he</em> had been the uncertain one, and now the tables were turned.</p><p>"Charles," she suddenly blurted after a couple of minutes, "I am so sorry about what happened on—"</p><p>"No need to apologize," he replied, ensuring that his eyes appeared to be smiling as well as his covered mouth. "I should be in fact <em>thanking </em>Dr. O'Rourke, for ensuring you were not left to your own devices."</p><p>"Now, what is <em>that</em> supposed to mean?" she remarked, narrowing her eyes, her voice hardening. "That I can't be trusted by myself?"</p><p>"Nothing of the sort," he said, lowering his voice. "In this day and age, especially in a large city such as Boston, a woman alone is at risk. Though he's not… tall, or physically imposing by any stretch of the imagination, I imagine any would-be assailant was discouraged when he at last arrived."</p><p>Now Margaret was ignoring the surgical field, looking full-on at the side of Charles's unaffected eyes, the lack of wrinkles on his brow.</p><p>"I just don't understand you," she muttered, shaking her head at him.</p><p>"Understand that your <em>safety</em> is of paramount importance to me, Margaret," he calmly replied, only glancing at her briefly with eyebrows raised. "Even more so than my own injured pride."</p><hr/><p>"Retraction here," Charles said after a long tense silence, indicating a flap that had to be pulled away, a smile beneath his mask as he pictured Clyde O'Rourke's operating room and the incompetent Nurse Hays working beside him.</p><p>His sutures were impeccable, the surgery proceeding without any issues. Charles was again the consummate, cool-headed professional and Margaret was utterly taken aback by the return of the Charles she'd first met in Korea.</p><p>"So, Margaret," Charles stated as he finished up the last of his perfect sutures, "am I good to close?"</p><p>She looked up at him then, to see that his eyebrows were raised anticipatorily. Apparently he wasn't being sarcastic, but he wasn't being completely sincere either.</p><p>Margaret swallowed as she scanned the patient's sutures a second time, glancing up at Charles as she replied.</p><p>"I would say so," she murmured quietly, having been rendered incredibly uncomfortable.</p><p>"Very good. Would you mind closing for me, Margaret?"</p><p>Now she turned her entire body to face him, and yet he didn't noticeably react to the confrontational stance. When she peered up into his eyes, they were devoid of expression. After several seconds of silence, he raised his eyebrows expectantly.</p><p>"Alright," she said.</p><p>"'Kyu," he replied, and before she could say anything further, Charles pulled off his gloves and strolled right out of the operating room.</p>
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